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51 



LUBRICATIONS 



By 
W. G. (BILL) LONG 



Published by 

THE AUTHOR 

1922 



y \ 



Copyrighted 

BY THE AUTHOR 

1922 



HAMMOND PRESS 

^. B. CONKEY COMPANY 

CHICAGO 



APR 24 1922 
0)G!.A659760 




W. G. (bill) long 



THEY ARE FOR YOU 

VOU who have climbed to the top 

When the derrick was covered with snow; 

You who have made the drill drop 
In the sun-set's evening glow. 

You who have sweated and wrought 

From Pensy's ice-laden hills. 
To the sun-set's flowery spot 

Through Illinois ague and chills. 

Reached for the magic wealth. 

Vintage of desperate years; 
Sought it at night by stealth 

Embittered by unshed tears. 

I sing these songs for you : 

You, whose flesh shows the brand; 
To you who know they are true, 

God knows that you'll understand. 



INTRODUCTION 



THE OIL MAN'S GREED 

TJJ7E believe in this life. We believe that nature intended 
" all men to be equal according to his worthy desires. 

We believe in making the best of the present, forgetting 
the bad of the past, striving earnestly for the future 
betterment of all. 

We believe when the wheel of fortune is turned, that the 
best servant will be the best master; the mistakes we 
have made in the past will be the guiding buoy of the 
coming years. True equality is the equality of all. 

We believe to err is human, but to make the same mis- 
take twice is a crime. The dusters and the gushers 
are but the crucible that separates the dross from the 
pure gold of life. 

We believe that when we die our bodies return to dust 
whence the caldron nature uses it to bring forth the 
pink-hearted rose and the blushing fruit. 

We believe in the immortal soul, it is ours to burnish, 
brighten and glorify, or to shrivel, blacken and damn. 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

'T'HE National Petroleum News, having 
used a great number of these "Rhymes" 
in their publication, I hereby acknowledge 
my appreciation of the good fellowship of 
Warren C. Piatt, its editor, who has kindly 
allowed their use in this book. 

The writer has taken liberties with the 
following authors: Rudyard Kipling; 
Robert Service; Wordsworth; Edgar A. 
Guest; and others, for which he apolo- 
gizes. 

The Author. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Soliloquy of Oil 11 

They Are There 13 

The Driller 15 

Its Fascination 16 

Abandoned 17 

At Parker on the Hill 18 

The Song of the Derelict 20 

I'm a Wise Guy 22 

Randlet, Oklahoma (A Letter) 23 

A Producer's Dream in Tulsa 24 

The Tooley 25 

The Evolution of the Roustabout 27 

The Truth 30 

The Leaser's Argument 31 

More Pipe Lines 32 

When It's All Off 33 

To Gushing 26 

Irish Mary 34 

The Ghost of Barney Tholoco 36 

Tommy Atkins 39 

The Oil Country Tommy Atkins 41 

Alas, Poor Paden 42 

The Oil Country Vampire 44 

The Analyzing Oil Editor 45 

East or West It Is the Same. 46 

The Old Man's Lament 47 

7 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

O You Kitty! 49 

The Law of the Oil Field 50 

The Farmer's Sand 52 

Reminiscent 53 

The Dreamer 54 

Tell Them Again to Me 55 

Genius 57 

Lament to Bacchus 58. 

Farewell, Doctor Booze 59 

Texas 60 

Requiem to the Power That Was 62 

The Investigating Spirit of Congress 62 

My Flag 64 

Just Tired 65 

His Oil Country' Shack 66 

Der Tag 67 

The Devil's Soliloquy on the Kaiser 68 

1909 69 

1914 70 

Our Flag 29 

Give and You Shall Receive 72 

To James Whitcomb Riley 72 

May 30, 1908 74 

The Pants That Mother Made 75 

Bill 78 

If You Were Mine 79 

The Girl in Dixie 80 

The Cry of the Tame 51 

Memories of a Valentine 81 

When Mother's Gone 82 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Thanksgiving Thought 63 

At Fifty-five 83 

A Warning to Colored Brothers 84 

The Wail of the Fat Man 71 

Who's to Blame? 85 

Going Home 86 

The Death of Mark Twain 87 

Thanksgiving 88 

Friendship 88 

Canandaigua in a Frenzy 89 

Why Not? 89 

When I Am Fifty and You Are Five 90 

Pre-Nuptial Shower 91 

Violets 91 

Wouldn't This Be a Dream? 92 

The Home on the River Hill 93 

Father's Got a Job 94 

Spring Troubles 95 

Hallowe'en 96 

Laddie 97 

Spring 98 

Our Day Dreams 98 

All His Labors Are Vain 99 

Our Good Friend $$$$$ 100 

The Old Bucket Shop 101 

If I Should Die Tonight 102 

Dem Guys Next Door 103 

When the Ice is in the Rye 103 

Optimistic Bill 105 

The Grafter 107 

To My Book 107 

The Apology 108 



I 



THE SOLILOQUY OF OIL 

HAVE been buried in subterranean caverns for a mil- 
lion years. What will the earth's axis do without 
my lubrication? 



A half a century ago I was liberated, bridled, saddled, 
and made subservient to the will of man. My Liber- 
ator's voice speaks from the exhausts of thousands 
of engines, for from my storehouse comes their 
power. 

I am the lubricator of the wheels of commerce, the 
bearer of human freight and grain is whirled across 
a continent because I am in their journals. 

I light the great cathedral with the waxen taper. The 
poor and lowly, the great and affluent, use me to light 
their pathway to knowledge. 

I am the tireless servant of millions. I brighten up the 
midnight darkness of the gloomy world, and illumi- 
nate the home of the peasant and prince. Without 
me the air would have remained unconquered. I am 
the power that drives the brain child of Wright 
Brothers through eternal space. 

It is I that tears the lightning from the heavens and makes 
it a plaything for the child. I plow the unbroken 
fields and harvest the golden grain. My body is laid 
upon the streets of magnificent cities, happy in feel- 
ing the footsteps of children, and I laugh at the great 
burdens in the despatch of business. I am the builder 
of empires and the destroyer of kings. I move the 
death dealing instruments of war. I grease the pas- 
sage of the great ship in her initial plunge on the 
breast of the ocean. Without me the world would 
be helpless. 

11 



12 LUBRICATIONS 

I — — 

I am the soul of printers' ink and a million readers hear 
me speak. I am the builder of cities, my derricks 
stab the new world's sky, and my golden shafts kiss 
the noon-day sun. Man brought me forth and I 
mastered him. I make him bow and cringe and at 
night pray to my golden calf. In man's quest for me 
he has been made a pauper. I pick the beggar up 
and set him in a palace. I am his menial. I clean 
his clothes and polish his floors. 

My breath blazes forth in the kitchen, to cook his food. 
He warms his feet by my flickering flame in his par- 
lor. Yon graceful car, so strong and beautiful, has 
concealed within its body a part of me. I am its 
heart and through my pulsations the Master pro- 
duces strength, speed and efliciency. 

I furnish the disc that brings the God-hewn voice 
through its throat of brass that time will not destroy. 
Man cannot live without me. I bring life, its joys 
and its sorrows. I grease the channel of man's en- 
trance into the world; I seal his casket when he 
leaves. To think that I, with all my power, comfort 
and efficiency lay millions of years waiting for the 
hand of the dreamer. 



LUBRICATIONS 13 



THEY ARE THERE 

TF I were looking for soldiers with good red blood in 
their veins; 

If I were hunting for manhood, men careless of scars 
and pains; 

If I were looking for Nobles, — men that you cannot de- 
feat; 

I would never go to the city to hunt its stifled street. 

If I were hunting a soldier for a battle, or say, for this life, 

I would hike me off to the oil field, get men who are used 
to strife; 

Men who climb the derrick when it staggers from spud- 
ding line 

Like a careening ship in a typhoon or swaying like a 
forest pine. 

There I would find my model, one who was quick to feel 
That this whole life is a warfare, one with nerves of steel; 
One that can build a city, one that can drill a well, 
For water is all important when cannons belch forth their 
hell. 

Men who are true to their friendship, who love our own 
green sod; 

Men who bend knees to no one but women, her home 
and their God. 

If I were looking for true men, men who fear not the moil, 

I would leave city and village and go where they're drill- 
ing for oil. 

These are soldiers of fortune, men that establish their 

fame 
Sucking the oil from earth's bosom; building in honor, 

not shame. 
Dragging from the old world's store-house the fluid of 

amber gold, 



14 LUBRICATIONS 

Made after God's own image, moulded in God's own 
mould. 

This is the place to find them; some will curse as they 
toil, 

Yet tenderly care for a brother smoothing his troubles 
like oil. 

With hands that are blistered and swollen gently caress- 
ing the face 

Of the injured, broken brother — ^you will find him in no 
other place. 



A PRODUCER'S DREAM IN TULSA 

TTE lay upon his Ostermoor; the stars winked overhead. 

He heard his Bessemer engine back fire from its shed; 
He saw the golden, sparkling oil tlow from his leading line. 
He smiled as Angels whispered (it seemed almost divine). 
He saw his tanks all laden with one dollar five cent oil. 
And the pipe line people say to him, "Let us pay you for 

your toil." 
He saw the market going up, his wells increased his gold, 
The pipe lines were sorry that he had never sold. 
They did not wake him from his dreams, it was so sweet 

and real 
They let him have those fragrant flowers, without the 

stab of steel. 
So they let him smile in happiness, for to him it was so 

sweet 
They took a knife and cut his throat while he was fast 

asleep. 

Moral: There is no difference between cutting a 
man's throat and letting the sunshine into his entrails, 
than to cut his meal ticket off and let the sun shine 
through them. 



LUBRICATIONS 



THE DRILLER 

VES! he wore the old blue overalls, emblem of his 
trade; 

His hands were hard and calloused, his clear eyes una- 
fraid. 

Was a pioneer at Bradford — felled the hemlock and the 
pine 

To build the hemlock cities all along the ancient line. 

He wrests the golden fluid from earth's maternal breast. 

Builds homes for the producers, by his patient toil and 
zest. 

As they pioneered the "gold-fields" back in forty-nine. 
So he opened up the oil-fields, on the five and forty line. 
He is found at work in Canada 'mid winter's fiendish blast. 
Is ready to climb to the pinnacle, be it a derrick or a mast; 
No matter if ice-laden, no odds if night or day. 
He laughs at threatened dangers, the drill he drives to the 
pay. 

He never plays to the galleries, he is wise and sane, 
A fine, big-hearted fellow; sometimes a little profane. 
Stationed out in the wilderness, near to nature's heart. 
Working with brain and muscle, wisely playing his part: 
It may be the crowded oil fields, or possibly alone, 
He is ever true to duty, ever thinking of home. 

Don't listen to the stories told on this man of toil, 
Don't heed the forked tongue gossips, of this pioneer in 

oil. 
For he is the old farm product, the kind that is ever first 
To blaze the trail thro' forests, 'mid its fever and its 

thirst ; 
The first to touch with magic wand, and bring the golden 

flow; 
He's the best old scout on God's green earth — I'm a driller 

myself and I know. 



16 LUBRICATIONS 



ITS FASCINATION 

TTOW I hated it like Hell in the beginning 
"As on tower at midnight I'd tramp; 
The smell of the hemlock and manila, 

The smoke of the old derrick lamp 
Made me wish for the life that never knew harness 

And the peaceful old home where the whippoorwili 
calls 
Away from the oil-field with all its mad pleasures, 

But the men of the oil-field, I am stuck on them all. 

I remember at Richburg when I was a novice 

At pointing the augers that drill the oil well; 
My back was as stiff as if cased in a bodice, 

And, Oh! how I wished the whole country in Hell. 
The alarm clock rang out the hour of midnight. 

As I grabbed my "old clothes" to answer its call; 
Picked up the "sav-can" to tramp thro' the snow drifts — 

It was Hell to get used to, but I now love it all. 

There is no place on earth that I love and cherish 

As the fields where the derricks pierce the blue sky; 
No place on earth where my evil thoughts perish. 

As when I hear the screech of the beam's wailing cry. 
Here's hoping that I shall never retire 

To the city or farm away from its strife; 
There is nothing on earth that will quench my desire, 

If the oil-fields keep calling me back to its life. 

Go curse it — you craven, you who are beat; 

Go back to the country, the town and its moil! 
She scorns your discomfort, gloats your defeat. 

To the strong and courageous she gives up her oil. 
The faint-hearted critter she claws to the bone. 

She's as cruel as Hell, and as bitter as gall; 
She'll embrace but the strong and give them a home — 

It's the life of the strong man, and I love it all. 



LUBRICATIONS 17 

ABANDONED 

'T'HE beam is standing on its end; 

The derrick's warped and bent, 
The engine has no power to send, 

For the steam in the boiler's spent. 
The wind howls thro' the loosened girt. 

The band wheel's rent and drawn; 
The bull-wheel's grooves are filled with dirt, 

The bull rope frayed and worn. 
The engine's still, and red with dust. 

The crown wheel's ceased to scream; 
The drillers gone and left their trust, 

Just another shattered dream. 

Yet I saw that rig when all was bright. 

And the driller stood at the wheel; 
And thro' the stillness of the night 

I heard the sand-sheave squeal. 
No sweeter music could one hear. 

No golden tinted sky 
Was half so bright, or half so dear. 

As the flare of lamps, the wheel's wild cry. 
It brought sweet rest to the tired mind. 

It sang me to sleep with its screech; 
It renewed fond hopes that were left behind, 

And brought them within my reach. 

Now darkness deep, and silence drear 

Surrounds that spire of hope; 
No more we'll see a ghostly light, or hear 

The creak of the driller's rope. 
We played the hand dealt from the pack. 

Above board and on the square; 
We followed the old and beaten track. 

With the gamblers' reckless air; 
We washed the slush for its hidden sign. 

While our hopes were running high. 
We applied the glass, on the oozing slime 

In vain, for the sand was dry. 

2— April 1922 



18 LUBRICATIONS 



AT PARKER ON THE HILL 

A DRILLER from Pennsylvania lay dying in Illinois, 
The only hands to care for him were the hard hands 
of the boj^s; 
A tooley knelt beside him to hear what he might say, 
And carry his last message to his friends in old P-a. 
The dying driller muttered as he raised his palsied hand: 
"I never more shall see my own, my distant native land; 
Take a message as a token (and his eyes began to fill). 
To my birthplace up at Parker, at Parker on the hill. 

Just tell those ancient knockers that their prophecy's not 

true, 
Although I'm dying in Illinois without a single sou — 
That the hangman did not get me, to hang me on the rack 
And I'll haunt those old-time gossips, because I'm coming 

back. 
Though I've lied like hell to farmers, and drank their 

bitter Jav — 
Ate their punk and side-meat and their Butler county sav; 
I never drank the moonshine from Virginia's hidden still, 
Because I came from Parker, from Parker on the hill. 

It has been a hellish battle, and not always on the square, 

For I was always handicapped, was kicked at everywhere. 

I have played the cards life dealt me, with their joy or 
with their pain; 

Still I never struck the fallen foe nor stole his hard- 
earned gain. 

But have moiled with hands all blistered, seeking hidden 

wealth. 
Yet I never used vile methods or went at night, by 

stealth. 
I have used an honest yardstick, the measure'd always 

fill— 
For I was born at Parker, at Parker on the hill. 



LUBRICATIONS 19 

So take this message back to them and tell them how I 

died, — 
Be silent on my wayward ways, don't tell them how I've 

hed. 
Tell them that no Angels came a-fluttering on the wing. 
And that I thought of friendly ones, left off the gossip's 

sting. 
Just say that I forgave them. . . . (My God, but the 

world is cold!) 
And tell them how I've labored, garnering the sheaves of 

gold; 
Say how I made the anvil ring, or drove the mighty drill. 
For I was born at Parker, at Parker on the hill. 

His voice was growing husky . . . his eyes a ghastly 

stare . . . 
The oil lamp in the "Rag-house" winked out a ghostly 

glare; 
In fancy once again he saw that kind old mother's face 
Across the spectered chasm — out in eternal space. 
The death sweat stood out on his brow, he called that 

precious name . . . 
Coming, mother . . . coming . . . hallowed be thy 

name. 
The hands that turned the temper-screw, lay cold, and 

white and still — 
The driller's spirit was at rest — at Parker on the hill. 



20 LUBRICATIONS 



THE SONG OF THE DERELICT 

T'M one of the "Oil Country Brotherhood," I'm an old- 
time pioneer; 

I was one of the first— Oh, God, how I've cursed the oil- 
fields ! but still I'm here. 

I've sweated a-thirst in its summer heat; I've frozen and 
starved in its toil; 

I've followed my dreams by its thousand streams, slaved 
and worked for its oil. 

Look at my eyes, they've been burned twice; look, two 

fingers are gone; 
And the gruesome scar on my left cheek is where the 

spudding shoe cleft the bone. 
Each one a brand of this devilish land, where I've played 

and lost the game; 
A broken wreck with a craze for "Booze" without a cent 

to my name. 

This drilling is only a gamble, the worst is as bad as the 

best; 
I was hooked up right and might have come out, right on 

top with the rest; 
With Crawford, McGrew and McDonald — oh, God, but 

it's hell to think 
Of the coin of the realm I've squandered, on cards and 

women and drink. 

In the early days we were lonely, we hunted and just 

laid around. 
And dreamed in our lonely shanty of the oil that lay under 

the ground. 
We drank the mountain stilled whiskey, in the shade I've 

slept on the ground 
Close to the bee tree in Wetzel, near where the best well 
was found. 



LUBRICATIONS 21 



Of the Parker days with their sin and their blaze, and the 

town all open wide! 
(If God moulded me in his image, I've sure got the devil 

inside) 
For we were plumb mad both the good and the bad, yet I 

swear it's the truth I tell — 
There is no spot on earth in the same length of time, has 

hustled more souls to hell. 

At Sistersville money was dirt, so easy to get and to spend. 
I got stuck on a chambermaid, but she shook me in the 

end; 
That made me a bum and for over a year I never drew 

sober breath, 
'Till I found myself in a bug-house ward, with a lease 

that's bounded by death. 

Thirty years in the oil-fields poring over its maps. 
Sometimes eating a la carte, sometimes dining on scraps. 
Bathed in the amber fluid, in the winter's fiendish cold — 
Thirty years in the oil-field . . . thirty years . . . 
and I'm old! 

Old and battered. No matter . . . there's booze in the 

bottle still. 
I'll hitch up my span of trotters, drive them down to the 

'ville. 
Tonight I am fearfully lonesome . . . I'll just lay 

down on this bed . . . 
I'll go down tomorrow . . . tomorrow . . . shoot 

the "Pea" this stack goes on the red. 

. . . Come Bill, turn your wheel quick . . . my 

auto awaits in the court . . . 
. . . I'll play you this stack of "Blue Ones," just to 

show you I'm a sport . . . 
. . . How many tanks did she make, Bill . . . 

come on and play out the game . . . 
. . . Dear God, up in heaven . . . What! you 

here, Kit? . . . Hallowed be thy name . . . 



22 LUBRICATIONS 

And this was the song of the derelict, as he lay in his 

shack alone, 
With none to care for the still form there, the lips had 

ceased to moan; 
In the flickering light — 'tis a gruesome sight when God 

calls a wanderer home. 



I'M A WISE GUY 

VES, I'm the fellow that knows it all 

About this glorious game of oil; 
I sit in the lobby every day. 
And you can bet on what I say. 
I've followed it up since John was a lad. 
And know his thoughts, good and bad; 
Geology to me is like A, B, C. 
All the newspaper dope comes out of me. 
The big producers I know by name, 
And the date when they began the game; 
I know their records from A to Z, 
I'm a wise old owl as you can see. 
My only object's to help the "BOYS ALONG, 
And when I'm going good and strong 
I boost their game, and it brings me luck; 
My former job was driving a truck. 
I know when the price is going up, 
I have the instinct of a "highbrow pup" 
Who noses the brush and flushes the game. 
But I'm too danged modest to sign my name. 



LUBRICATIONS 23 



Randlet, Oklahoma, Aug. 16, 1912. 
Dear Lawrence — 

I am writing you this from a little rag shack, 

Just to let the boys know that I have got back. 

I met Doctor Booze in town that first night. 

He shook his wise head, said, that lump is a sight. 

You must heed my advice, he said with a grin. 

For to go back to work with that lump is a sin — 

I'll take it away without blood or pain 

(Of course if you're careful it will sure grow again. 

So I was persuaded and went into his game 

When I think of it now I was surely insane) 

For he started and peeled a strip at a stroke. 

It was not very painful, 'twas the truth that he spoke, 

'Till 'long about midnight the lump grew so small 

I could have swallowed the smear, and not choked at all. 

By morning, dear Lawrence, I knew it was all wrong. 

For under his treatment I had become very strong. 

Now the lump being removed. Doctor Booze had gone 

home. 
And my head (mostly concrete) now felt like a bone — 
And the things that passed by as if in review 
Would go a long way toward filling a zoo. 
And I learned now too late, how he lied when he said: 
'Twould be bloodless and painless. (Great God, what a 

head!) 
A week has gone by and I am back at my toil, 
Twisting rotten old junk, a-boring for oil; 
Yet I still see that table where the lump was reduced 
And I still have the ache that the spirits produced; 
But I'm glad I've got back to that derrick of steel, 
To the screech of the pulleys, and the whirl of the wheel, 
To the little rag house by the side of the tree; 
It is a slavish old game but it's better for me 
Than old Doctor Booze with his high-balls and fizzes 
And the life that goes with it, loose gowns, and frizzes. 



24 LUBRICATIONS 

Now old R. E. Morse stands and peeks thro' the door 
And smilingly asks, are you still feeling sore? 
You have met him, dear Lawn, he's that ragged old bo. 
That the next morning after says, "I told you so." 
But I wish to say here, it was a loud jolly bunch. 
Especially when soused in a foaming milk punch; 
There was Dalton, Ted Smith, Hudson and Hivick, 
Brice Kinney, Gartland, Summers and Heydrick. 
Some class to that bunch when out in full force. 
The end would be pleasant, but for that damned R. E. 

Morse, 
Now should any one ask for me, say that I pass. 
When corks are all popping, well, just turn down a glass. 
For never again shall women and wine 
Perform an operation on this form of mine. 
When reading this letter just laugh, if you will; 
I say it's my last. 

Yours truly, 

BILL. 



LUBRICATIONS 25 



THE TOOLEY 

A POOR and worn out "Tooley" came to Heaven's 
^ gate, 
Found drillers and producers crowding; sighed and said, 

"I'll wait." 
For I have been a driller's servant, always poor and plain, 
And should I crowd up boldly, I know 'twould be in vain. 

"Come! Enter the jeweled portal," said Peter; "the prize 

is thine; 
For you've shoveled the coal in the boiler and the steam 

you kept was fine; 
No driller did you keep waiting, so enter here and now — 
A crown of life eternal is waiting to press thy brow." 

The Tooley stood and trembled and cried: "Peter, dear, 

not I, 
For the man in front owned a hundred wells, I cannot 

pass him by! 
Why, I never owned an auto, I did the commonplace 

things, 
The best hand that I ever held was three aces and a pair 

of kings." 

"Why, I scrubbed up the derrick floor; in the coldest 
room I slept; 

I washed the driller's jacket; the towels were clean that 
I kept; 

My bits have broken and battered, drilling the 'Big Injun 
sand'; 

I've lied like a heathen to the contractor, in this, a 
Christian land. 

Why, I've stolen the farmer's chickens (I swear it's the 
truth I tell) ; 

Hid their bones in the pumpings, cooked them in the ex- 
haust at the well. 



26 LUBRICA TIONS 

I'm old and battered and weary; warped and gray and 

bent; 
I've received no chants of glory, the world's been good; 

I'm content." 

"Arise!" cried the waiting Peter; "I give you eternal 

youth, 
For you are the only Tooley that has come here and 

spoken the truth; 
I place this crown on your forehead, place you where 

angels sing. 
For if you stole the ROOSTER, you got only the backbone 

and wings." 

Moral: The driller and producers got the white meat. 



TO GUSHING 

A la Grantland Rice 

WTHETHER we think your day is past, 
" Whether we think you've gone to stay 
Among the "has-been" gushers at last; 

Whether we think you've had your day; 
Although you'll never produce the oil. 

You did in the days gone by, 
You changed to the Prince the man of toil 
Before they sucked you dry. 

Whether your arteries are hardened and old 

And have ceased response to the bit; 
They have bled you well for your liquid gold 

The bases were full when you hit. 
You may come back with a flash once more. 

Where veins have sharply turned, 
Overlooked by the men who bore. 

But the market you've scarred and burned. 



LUBRICATIONS 27 



THE EVOLUTION OF THE ROUSTABOUT 

TJE has plodded through the Beech-woods, 
-^-*- Through the snow of Bradford's hills; 
He has hustled for his daily food 

Across the frozen rills. 
His load would shame the burro 

That he carted o'er the lease; 
There were callouses on his shoulders, 

His clothes were covered with grease. 
He had left his home in Parker 

To see the gusher spout, 
On great bleak hills of Bradford 

And to be a roustabout. 
The "Tie-path" was a long one 

From Bradford to his home; 
He had written twice for money, 

With a promise ne'er to roam. 
After supper in the evening 

He would go and call his name 
At the postofTice 'round the corner, 

But the remittance never came. 



We saw him next at Butler, 

He was a Farm-Boss, so he said; 
And the hat he wore at Rixford 

Didn't begin to cover his head. 
He took a position at Washington, — 

A position, and not a job, 
Where the boys all called him Mister, — 

They were fired if they called him Bob. 
Manager they called him at Mannington, 

With a stenographer his thoughts to indite, 
'Twas hard to hold hands with Robert 

And stenograph what he wanted to write. 



28 LUBRICATIONS 

Things for Robert came quite easy, 

Yet the woman that toiled all her life 

Just sat at home with the children. 
Satisfied as the manager's wife. 

The interests he had, they were many. 

Owned tools, and some people say 
That he had a very large interest 

In a lease, making five hundred per day. 
But up in that office on Broadway 

Where the Octopus lies coiled in his lair 
Awaiting the reports of its servants. 

This rumor impregnates the air. 
It called for immediate action. 

For John D. must own all the oil — 
The ideal that one of his trusties 

Should get just one lease from his toil; 
He immediately wired Mister Robert 

His production at once he must sell; 
The reply "John" received was a corker — 

The message read : "You go to H 1." 

He had more to pack in his "Turkey" 

Than when he left home on the rocks; 
Then his suit case contained fifty-four pieces, 

A deck of cards, and a pair of old socks. 
But now it was bursting with clothing. 

There were collars and cuffs and cravats, 
A white vest and silk underwear plenty. 

And one of "them" new-fangled silk hats. 
The men all liked chesty Robert, 

Since he had got over his pride, 
And came from all points to bid him farewell — 

There was one big-hearted fellow that cried. 
As he stood on the rear end of the Pullman, 

He waved his silk hat to the boys: 
So long to you, friends and old comrades. 

You'll hear from me soon from IH'nois." 



LUBRICATIONS 29 

Lucky? Why everything Robert went into 

Was just like old wheat in the mill, 
And nature unburdened her secrets 

To point out the right spot to drill. 
He's as rich as the proverbial Crcesus, 

And sits in a large roller chair, 
At the top of a sky-scraping building, 

Where he breathes altitudinous air. 
In a "buzz wagon" he comes to his office. 

Eats luncheon at twelve, dines at five; 
He just loves the classic Grand Opera; 

He's the greatest art critic alive. 
They say he's educated and cultured. 

An authority on poetry and art. 
Reads Virgil's orations for pastime, 

The niad he knows all by heart. 
His taste for "sow-belly" has left him. 

And Arbuckle's Jav he can't stand; 
He craves dishes that sound "a la Creole," 

And must have the accompanying band. 



OUR FLAG 



"DAPTIZED with shot and shell 
-*-' And drenched in patriots' blood. 
What stories she could tell 

Of how for right she stood. 
An emblem of the free, 

We men of this proud state 
Are part and parcel, you and me. 

Of what has made her great. 
Long may the handsome banner wave 

Above our peaceful home. 
And plant it o'er our lonely grave 

When called to God's white throne. 



30 LUBRICATIONS 



THE TRUTH 

TF you're waking kick me early, kick me early won't you, 

-■- dear? 

For you have punched my meal ticket all this bloomin' 

year. 
It was a happy springtime the best I'd ever seen, 
Until you cut the price of oil, and jarred me from my 
dream. 

I'll give away my pumping wells, for my fortune's well 

nigh spent, 
The banker holds the deed of trust, and I cannot pay my 

rent; 
There'll never be a glad new year for Oklahoma oil. 
For Mag and Mac and Standard Oil have robbed them of 

their toil. 

They'll not renew the Osage lease, now mark well what 

I say. 
No matter how the Brennans talk, or the Kellys, and 

Judge Shea; 
The Osage cow is a farrow now, they've milked her clean 

and dry. 
In nineteen sixteen, is twenty years, so let's let the old 

lease die. 



LUBRICATIONS 31 



THE LEASER'S ARGUMENT 

A LEASER went to work one day; 
"^ A norther swept the moor; 
He went his cheerful kindly way 

To help a worthy poor. 
He found the ranchman at his home 

He grabbed his horny hand, 
And said, I'm glad you are alone 

For I want to lease your land. 

You've made no crops, the leaser said. 

You have nothing for your toil, 
I'll drill a well, the leaser plead, 

That will make you rich with oil. 
No more you'll eat the sour dough 

But pie and cake for your'n; 
Your wife won't cut the wood, I know. 

For you'll have gas to burn. 

It's not a dream that soon will fade 

The facts are cold as steel; 
You'll cease to drive that Pinto jade, 

You'll sit behind the wheel; 
You'll leave the farm, and go to to town 

With Mayme, and Jim, and Lee, 
Y'ou'U have a cottage painted brown 

If you'll lease your land to me. 

What Happened 

He grabbed that leaser by his clothes. 

With one hand yanked his hair. 
He smashed him on the face and nose. 

And tore his clothes for fair; 
He threw him on the frozen clay. 

He kicked him where he sits. 
The leaser dodged and got away, 

For the farm wasn't worth "two-bits. 



32 LUBRICATIONS 



MORE PIPE LINES 

CHOULD you ask the needs of Oil Men, 
^ With their great and flush production 
And the pipe lines goading, goading 

Them to dire and swift destruction; 
When the shylocks and the bankers 

Show their ledger red from usage, 
And their credit balance distant 

From expense of their construction; 
With the grocer, and the meat man. 

Looking stern at other orders; 
And the gasoline for last month 

For the classic aut-to-mo-bile, 
Not yet paid for at the garage, 

Wifey wearing last year's bonnet; 
This is not an idle sonnet. 

It's the truth and I can prove it 
By the needs of all the Oil Men. 

What they need, if you should ask me, 
It is pipe lines with large holes in. 

It is stations with large pumps in, 
And the market broad and worldly. 

This is then the needs of Oil Men. 



LUBRICATIONS 33 



WHEN IT^S ALL OFF 

T^ON'T bury me in a graveyard, when I have traveled 

^ west, 

But bury me near an oil-field, the place that I've loved 

best; 
An anvil for a pillow, and on it lay my head. 
And seal my grave with paraffin when I am dead. 

When it's all off, throw down a bellows for my bed. 
And light the way with "yellow dogs" and set them at my 

head; 
There where I've struggled 'long my happy way, 
Where I'll feel the auger pounding; there I'll meet the 

day. 

When it's all off, let me hear the derrick groan, as man 

alive; 
Let the beam whine above me, and let the engine drive; 
And when the tools are piled, and the cable's off and 

dried, 
Let me lay where I can feel it all, when I have died. 



34 LUBRICATIONS 



IRISH MARY 

"PJON'T know "Irish Mary"? You must be young in the 

-'^ trade, 

For ahnost a half a century she's been called the "oil- 
country jade." 

No door did she ever find open; no children played at 
her knee, 

For she was a broken old derelict, on a turbulent human 
sea. 

She curses, she rants in her frenzy — she swears she's as 
good as the best; 

She "digs" with her gnarled fingers, a crucifix from the 
sunken old breast; 

The children all run when they see her — young woman- 
hood catches its breath; 

My God, she was a horrible vision — stumbling on and on, 
until death. 

They called her old "Irish Mary" — no one knew aught of 

her past; 
She was one of the first in the new oil-fields — usually 

stayed 'till the last. 
She drank the "speak-easy whiskey" — the roulette board 

was her bed 
'Till the dive-keeper got over virtuous, then the cold 

ground she gets in its stead. 

I remember the last time I saw her — it was a cold and a 

boisterous night; 
The snow blew thro' cracks in the derrick, the wind was 

out in its might; 
I heard a knock at the walk-side door, I heard it again 

and again; 
The wind howled louder and louder, and the derrick 

groaned as in pain. 



LUBRICATIONS 35 

What's that? A woman's voice — like the wail of a soul in 

despair! 
I opened the door and there on the walk lay Mary with 

disheveled hair. 
We gently carried her into the light. The face was 

wrinkled and old, 
Swollen and beaten by the ice-flakes blue and tumid from 

cold. 

I chafed and rubbed her dirty hands — My God, 'twas a 

gruesome sight, 
The breath was foul with whiskey; a soul went to Hell 

that night. 
With the crucifix clasped in her fingers, she kissed it o'er 

and o'er — 
The features of "Irish Mary" are known in the oil-fields 

no more. 



36 LUBRICATIONS 



THE GHOST OF BARNEY THOLOGO 

T WAS sitting, sadly dreaming of my legal ship careening, 

O'er court-house billows and their angry roar; 
Through those big books still a-dreaming, 
When I heard some one tapping — rapping at my ofTice 

door. 
" 'Tis the wind," I muttered faintly, "merely this and noth- 
ing more; 
Just the wind and nothing more." 

Back unto my volume turning, all my soul within me 

burning. 
When again I heard the tapping — somewhat louder 

than before — 
Surely, I am not mistaken, some one's rapping at my ofTice 

door. 
I must quell the throbbin' heart-beats and this mystery 

explore." 
Went I then in fear and trembling, to this mystery explore. 
Darkness there and nothing more. 

Open then I flung the screen-door, with my heart all in a 
flutter. 
In there stepped a stately Indian wrapped in blanket, 
as of yore; 
Now we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
Ever yet was blest with seeing Ghost of Barney at the door, 
Standing there like sculptured marble, in the frameway 
of the door; 
It was Barney, nothing more. 

Deep into his black eyes peering, long I stood there won- 
dering, fearing. 
Thinking thoughts no human being ever dared to 
think before; 



LUBRICATIONS 37 

But the silence was unbroken, and his features gave no 

token 
3f the thoughts that were unspoken; I had seen that face 

before, 
?0T it was the face of Barney, wandering from his nightly 

shore — 
Barney Tholoco, nothing more. 

'Tell me, Barney, tell me, why you left night's Plutonian 

shore? 
For you're dead as all good Injuns, courts have said so 

long before. 
A. well was flowing on the Cimarron's winding shore." 
Yet he stood there, all undaunted, as if he was a thing 

enchanted. 
"Please go back to Stygian darkness, please go back, I 

thee implore." 
And the redman's only answer — "Nevermore !" 

Then he rose as if departing, "Ghost or Devil," I shrieked, 
up-starting, 
"Get thee back into the tempest, and the night's Plu- 
tonian shore. 

Leave my loneliness unbroken." Then he opened wide 
the door. 

In there filed a thousand phantoms. Tommy Atkinses 
galore, 

And the room was filled with Tommies from the window 
to the door — 
Filled with Tommies to the door. 

Why should I stand there and cavil— if they're sent by 

God or devil, 
Whether from the dome inverted, or from the dark 

and Stygian shore, 
I will take those phantom leases. Slipped I 'round and 

locked the door. K 



38 LUBRICATIONS 

Then I asked how many Tommies, and they answered, 
"We're a score." 
The phantoms answered many more. 

Turned I then to solemn Barney, elbows resting on his 
knees. 
Asked him of his many children, numerous as the 
forest trees. 

Then I wrote the leases quickly, fearing there'd be many 
more; 

Signed and sealed them in the office, witnessed by the 
devil's spore. 

Then I 'wakened, startled, frighted, at the creaking of 
the door, 
To find the bottle clean and empty — here's my prom- 
ise— NEVERMORE. 



LUBRICATIONS 39 



TOMMY ATKINS 

THE lawyer's meal TICKET AND THE GRAFTER's HEAVEN 

VOU have asked me for a story 
-*- Of traditions, myths and legends 
That concern one Tommy Atkins. 
There are many, many Atkins, 
Each one darker than the other, 
Black of heart and very crafty. 
Each one claims he has no brothers. 
Every oil man has a Tommy 
Just as good as any other. 

What about him do you ask me? 
Listen now and I will tell you. 
In the valley of the Cimarron, 
In the verdant, silent valley. 
Dwelt the forebear of this Tommy. 
Veiled in mystery was this maiden. 
No one knew aught of her husband. 
No one knew aught of her Tommy, 
Each of which she may have had one. 
No one seems to care at this time. 
When the golden flow was opened 
Straightway came the men of wisdom, 
Rich in ways and means so crafty. 
Rich in years of oil production. 
Thro' the records grim and musty 
Hunted they for birth of Tommy; 
Found his wonderous birth and being. 
How he lived and died in sutf ering 
Just before the golden harvest 
Had he lived that he'd been heir to. 
Now, across his quiet head-stone — 
Head-stone without an inscription— 



40 LUBRICATIONS 

Are lawyers pleading, arguing wisely 
That there is a real live Tommy, 
That the grave of Tommy's vacant. 
Others argue, just as wisely, 
That there never was a Tommy, 
That Tom's enrollment never happened. 
While others look on with compassion. 
Each of which has the real and only 
Tommy Atkins of the Cimarron. 

Why this quarrel for wasted vale-land 

Go subdue your stubborn natures. 

For Tommy Atkins is a myth. 

Go allay your thirst and fevers — 

If there was a real Tom Atkins 

List the north winds they will tell you 

That they'd dig him from the graveyard. 

Take his bones and wire together 

To exhibit in the court-house, 

Just to show the phoney Tommies 

That the only Tommy lived. 

And we weary of your lawsuits. 

Of your inharmonious discords. 

And the north wind passing whispers. 

All this land is the whole nation's — 

Tommy Atkins is a myth. 

Solomon and all Wisdom could not handle the ques- 
tions that confront the courts of Oklahoma. 

For 

He had lived with Hebrews, where the best was like the 

worst; 
His laws the Ten Commandments, he could always quench 

his thirst. 
When the temple bells called Solomon to issue his decrees 
He didn't have the lawyers, to swarm around like bees. 
The problems that confronted him he solved them right 

off hand. 



LUBRICA TIONS 41 

But out there in Jerusalem, they had no Atkins land. 

So if Solomon had the questions that confront our district 

court 
He would be a bum old piker and not the wise old sport. 



THE OIL COUNTRY TOMMY ATKINS 

(With apologies to Kipling) 

T WENT into the court 'ouse to 'ear what I could 'ear — 

The judge 'e up and sez to me, "What are ye doin' 'ere?' 
The lawyers at the bar they laughed and giggled fit to die, 
For they 'ad the ONLY Tommy — they 'ad no use for I. 

O, they's a Tommy or they ain't a Tommy, so chase your- 
self away, 

But they'll need this Tommy Atkins when the court is in 
full sway; 

When the court is in full sway, me boys, when the court 
is in full sway. 

For they IS a Tommy Atkins, both Page and Josey say. 

Page and Josey ain't no 'eroes, they ain't no blackguards 

too. 
They're just shrewd business oil men, just like me and 

you; 
And sometimes if their conduct isn't all our fancy paints 
Just remembeF all the oil men don't grow into plaster 

saints. 

We need a Tommy Atkins, and we'll get one, never mind, 
We'll need 'im on the witness stand, when there's trouble 

in the wind. 
When there's trouble in the wind me boys, when there's 

trouble in the wind, 
Just any old black nigger, for our courts are always blind. 



42 LUBRICA TIONS 

We leased the land from Tommy's ma, while Tommy was 

asleep, 
We've got our papers signed by her, 'twas a shame they 

were so cheap; 
We knew that Tommy was a myth, his mother was a joke; 
We took our chance with justice and we'll law them 'till 

they're broke. 

For with Tommy here and Tommy there, and Tommy 

just outside, 
But it's fine hotels for Tommy when the suit is on inside; 
When the suit is on inside, me boys, and the lawyers 

always rave. 
We will have a Tommy Atkins, if we dig 'im from the 

grave. 

Tommy Atkins' mother must of had triplets galore. 
Each time of her confinement she must have had a score; 
For they are finding Tommy Atkinses in every wood and 

dell. 
And the grafting shyster lawyers make the devil smile in 

hell. 

For Tommy Atkins' father must have been a prolific soul, 
When first oil was discovered how the Tommys in did roll. 
How the Tommys in did roll, me boys, a hundred in a day. 
For there's a thousand Tommy Atkinses, so Page and 
Josey say. 



ALAS! POOR PADEN— WE KNEW HER 
DISPOSITION 

ALAS! poor Paden, we knew her well (Oil Well) 

■^^ She "busted" the market and simply raised H 1. 

Well, we waited and watched, admired their gall, 
Of boosting a gusher, when they'd nothing a-tall — 
We groaned at expense, that the wise ones were laden. 
With geology, biology, criminology at Paden. 



LUBRICATIONS 43 

How they delved in that mystery, that little dark hole, 
How the wires rang out, as they perjured their soul; 
But before they drilled in, they wired New York 
For the guys with the high-brows, that will grow into pork. 
And they all came down to see this mystery explored. 
And see their wealth trickling down the hole that they 

bored; 
For they were as ignorant as a sweet country maiden. 
But paragorically speaking they got wisdom at Paden. 

They'll rush back to New York with a wail and a whine. 
And get out their axes, cut the price a thin dime, 
For tips to the porters, livery, auto and sich 
Hurts a "high-brow" like blazes, even if rich. 
To their grandsons they'll tell in monkey-like chatter 
How the great Paden well was drilled into water. 
And how this dear child with gold would be laden. 
Had they NOT played geology down there at Paden. 

Afterword 

All the science and faith in this world or the 
world to come will not make a gusher out of a 
Sixty Barrel Well. Geology may have found Catamites 
cannseformis, or they may have found some skulls Dino- 
therium giganteum or some Chamfered and imbricated 
scales, but none of these seemed to have the Oleaginous 
matter in sufficient quantities to spontaneously gush forth 
the flow of gold anticipated, aye, even commanded by 
the pampered sons of Broadway. If they insisted on 
seeing oil flow I would suggest that they shoot a 42-inch 
centimeter shell through fifty-five thousand barrel tanks. 
That would have been better sport than shooting a "Dago" 
camp in Colorado. 



44 LUBRICATIONS 



THE OIL COUNTRY VAMPIRE 

A FOOL there was and he drilled a hole. 

Even as you and I. 
He selected the spot and bet his roll, 
He sold; the stock and perjured his soul, 

Even as you and I. 

'Twas a judgment test and he used his best. 

As he sat at eventide, 
And dreamed a dream of a feathered nest, , ' 

The comfort he'd have in the years of rest. 

But he found his "Dream-child" lied. 

A fool there was and he gave his note. 

Even as you and I. 
For stock in a "Wild-cat well," he wrote — 
The dividends did not seem so remote — 
He felt very much like a bonded "Bloat," 

Even as you and I. 

Oh! the cents we lose, and the sense we lose 

Figuring dividends with pride. 
In castles of air, we had builded there 
In vision of beauty with never a care. 

Yet we were not satisfied. 

The fool went broke to his last red cent. 

Even as you and I. 
The well was dry and the money was spent. 
Nobody cared where the plunger went; |^ 
Yet he gave tongue to a loud lament, ^ 

Even as you and I. 

He cared not for loss, for money is dross. 

The reason that poor fool cried. 
It was when he had known, he was scraped to the bone. 
That he was tlirown on the world alone, 

'Twas failure that hurt his pride. 



LUBRICATIONS 45 



THAT ANALYZING OIL EDITOR 

"TV OWN around Muskogee they lead the simple life, 
■*-^ But their popular Oil Editor is always seeking strife; 
His feet are awful tender, has the wisdom of the owl. 
And he uses dum-dum bullets which all experts say are 
foul. 

He kin take a little oil dope, not over two lines long. 
And make a column story when he is going strong; 
He can write about the storage with all its downs and ups; 
He can tell the date exactly when the bull-wheel-dog had 
pups. 

He kin tell each blooming error in the Prairie's garbled 

table. 
And is the only honest interpreter of the Pipe Line and its 

fable; 
He kin punctuate the Pipe Line Runs, and tell 'em right 

off hand; 
He knows the favorable comments as the ranchman 

knows his brand. 

He criticizes ignorance, among our great and small. 
He's a serious minded "pusson" with his belly full of gall. 
The Editor of the Phoenix should advance Patricka 

Moore, 
For he's slaughtered all the dopesters, loves to wade 

around in gore. 



I 



46 LUBRICATIONS 

EAST OR WEST IT IS THE SAME OLD 
THING 

TT is the same old farmer, in the same old place, 

The same old whiskers on the same old face; 
The same old woman and the same old wail, 
The same old piker and his same old tale; 
The same old story with the same twinkling eye. 
To perforate the acres tho' they all are dry. 
The same livery horses, the same old rig. 
The same old buggy top is on the same "old pig"; 
The same old girl, the same dainty feet. 
The same old hominy and the same dirty sheet; 
The same old office where you hear the same old lies; 
The same old prunes, and the same old pies, 
The same old dining-room, the same broken chair, 
The same old side meat, with the same teat and hair. 
It is the same old story when you want to pay your fees. 
We never make a charge, you can pay what you please. 
The same old landlady, the same daughter sweet. 
The same favorite boarder makes your misery complete. 
The same lavatory, the same dinner bell. 
The same old boarders, wish for the same old hell; 
The same old rain, the same old slime. 
The same old railroad, four hours behind time; 
The same old skinner, with the same old smile. 
With the same evil thought in the same old style; 
Will the same old heaven be the same sweet place. 
For the same weary leaser, with the same smiling face. 
Or the same old hell with its same old fire. 
Fry the wronged piker because he's such a liar? 

But if we get up yonder where the streets are paved with 

gold, 
Will we have to listen to stories so often told? 
"Me and my old woman have worked so hard and long, 
For this farm of forty acres, now lease it for a song? 
If so, O, Good Lord, spare us from the anguish and the 

pain. 
And send us down to Hades to forever there remain. 



LUBRICATIONS 47 



THE OLD MAN^S LAMENT 

'THEY'VE moved the Postoffice, William, 

From the little shack on B — 
Moved it from that tumbled-in building. 

Where it's been since seventy-three; 
Another "land-mark" gone, William, 

A mile-stone passed in a stride. 
Installed in that pressed brick building 

That St. Albans points to with pride. 
Yes, they've moved the Postoffice, William, 

Have furnished it new and complete 
With gas and electricity lighted. 

And warmed by that new-fangled heat; 
Why, Bill, they have six hundred boxes. 

And it is finished in quarter-sawed oak; 
We may be old and back numbers, 

But that finery all looks like a joke. 
Mail passed thro' windows of gold, William, 

Wouldn't be any sweeter to you 
Than mail you received from the broken down door. 

From the sweetheart that loved you so true. 
They are setting the pace pretty fast, Bill, 

They'll carry you and me off our feet; 
Why, store keepers growl when you spit on the floor. 

The next thing they'll be paving our street. 
We have seen many changes, friend William, 

From the rumbling old hack to the trains; 
From the curb money broker to banker. 

But our old-fashioned Postmistress remains. 
The spring of youth's been discovered, 

Years and years she has handled the mails; 
Generations unborn will get mail from her hand. 

For eternal youth never fails. 
They say, Bill, in this new office 

That once a week they're going to sweep; 



48 LUBRICATIONS 

A sign will be over the door-way, 

Gentlemen will please clean their feet; 
If they get so "blooming persnickety, 

I'll go to Washington and see 
If we can't move it back to B street 

As it was in seventy-three. 
Yes, they've moved the Postoffice, William, 

From the little shack down on B; 
We'll have to get used to the modern ways. 

We've just got to do it, you and me. 
They are not satisfied as yet, William, 

With the Postoffice, new and bright, 
They object to our dear old Postmistress 

Because of her failing sight. 
They slipped away to the capital. Bill, 

To play their political game. 
Adopting the gumshoe methods. 

Be it said of them to their shame. 
For thirty-eight years, more or less. Bill, 

Her books have been kept clean and white, 
From a few business letters and missives 

To mail by carloads each night. 
To her trust she has always been true. Bill, 

Of the Inspector she had no fears, 
I've complained at the service and growled. Friend, 

But I apologize tonight, Bill, with tears. 
Thousands upon thousands she's handled. Bill, 

With never a blot on her name; 
She deserves something better, friend William, 

Than used, and thrown aside, like a cane. 
I have just had a talk with her, William, 

And on her old cheek you could trace 
The signs of grief, and displeasure. 

Chiseled deep in her old wrinkled face. 
I feel very badly tonight, William, 

That ingratitude at our capital holds sway; 
The motto, "Honor to Whom it is Due," William, 

Stands deserted, along the highway. 



LUBRICATIONS 49 



O YOU KITTY! 

r\ KITTY, you're a darling— 

^ You're a sweet-faced Indian Queen. 

There must have been a starling 

To whisper in your dream 
That "Midco" and Fred Aiken 

Had large bundles of the green. 
And you could do the raking 

To crown you, Kate, with sheen. 

A bonus, dear Miss Fixico, 

Of fifty thousand stones 
From Aiken and the Midco 

Must have scraped them to the bones. 
You could buy a good young man with that, 

A white one. Red or Creek, 
And if you won't mind one that's fat. 

For myself I hope to speak. 

If you'll turn to me what's in your name, 

I'll furnish the checks all right; 
I'll show you how to spend the same 

Like a Christian and a knight. 
You're just a simple-minded girl. 

Haven't touched life's cup of gall, 
I care not if your hair don't curl, 

I'll help you spend it all. 



50 LUBRICATIONS 



THE LAW OF THE OIL-FIELD 

Suggested by the fire at Tulsa, Okla., where five men 
met their death July 24, 1913. Lighting a match was the 
cause. 

'T'HIS is the law of the Oil-Field, and ever it must be 

plain, 
She must kill the match-lighting smoker, the cigarette- 
smoking insane; 
Her lives are valued by loved ones, her men are as good 

as the best; 
She has nurtured them all on her bosom, has lulled them 

oft to their rest. 
When her hidden treasures are punctured, and she 

gushes forth in her might, 
And you see the guy rolling his "pimp-stick," feeling his 

clothes for a light — 
Just grab up the "Porgie-jack-lever" and smash him over 

the head — 
Drive home the "rig-builders-hatchet," be sure that this 

fool is dead; 
Drown him like a rat in the river, starve him like the 

spawn of the plains — 
Leave him to rot near his folly, poisoned and hollow his 

veins. 
This is the law of the toiler, the ones that have ever been 

first. 
To lay cooling hands on those injured, by the match- 
lighting ninny accursed; 
This is the law of the lowly, the millionaire man and their 

spawn 
For the ones who carry the tinders, death must be sure 

and swift as the dawn. 
This is the law of the Oil-Field — that before you may raise 

the latch. 
You must learn that more lives and property are 

destroyed each year by the match; 



LUBRICATIONS 51 

[andsome ones, burned crisp and distorted, eyes staring, 

red and aglare, 
'hese branded men, they confront you, these are the facts 

that's laid bare. 

(With apologies to Robert W. Service.) 



THE CRY OF THE TAME 

T WANT to get away from the city. 

Where squalor is seen every day, 
I want to go out in the wildwood, 

In highways and byways in May; 
Away from the cursed vile city. 

Away from its rumble and roar. 
Out to the hills, grand and silent. 

Where the lark and eagle soar. 
Somehow the city seems lonely. 

True, 1 am old and I'm slow. 
But the city's wild cry is pathetic, 

It hurts me and I just have to go. 

Let me get away from eyes staring. 

Away from the faces so grim; 
Let me pluck beautiful flowers 

Away from the tumult and sin. 
Let me get away from sky scrapers, 

The ones that are builded by man, 
Lead me to the sky piercing mountains 

Builded by God's own plan. 
There let me breathe their fragrance. 

Let me list to their purring streams. 
Let me grow wild like the flowers 

In this, the land of my dreams. 



52 LUBRICATIONS 



THE FARMER^S SAND 

"PJID a dry one come in out at Burk, Louie? 

My word, what a cruel blow! 
Why, we worked like blooming Turks, Louie, 

To make that Roberts well flow. 
Dost think thou art deep enough, Louie? 

Let me hold your little white hand. 
We knoweth ours is big and rough, Louie, 

But 'twill brace you to the farmer's sand. 

That is the sand you know, Louie, 

That never bef ore's been explored; 
It is one with the rainbow glow, Louie, 

Its innards have never been bored; 
It's a sand that lies deep in the earth, Louie, 

A sand that to some is a dream. 
We have tried to find it since birth, Louie, 

To unseal it and take out its cream. 

Some fellow will do it some time, Louie, 

When done it'll be an awful deep well; 
It will take a long drilling line, Louie, 

For it will be China, oil, gas, or hell. 
You don't know where it is found, Louie? 

Now listen and I'll give you light. 
It is ten thousand feet under ground, Louie, 

Now, Louie, don't drop dead from fright. 

If you'd drill 'till you punctured Nick's soul, Louie, 

And your bank book was painted in red, 
You'd be taking the farmer's toll, Louie, 

It would not be deep enough, so he said. 
Remember that only wells that have oil, Louie, 

Will satisfy the owners of land; 
Then you'll receive kind words for your toil, Louie, 

But don't try for the old farmer's sand. 



LUBRICATIONS 53 



REMINISCENT 

"1¥7HEN you were a Tooley and I was the same 
'^ Back in the Bradford day — 
We'd no auto to ride the mountain side 

And the contractor had his say; 
We hammered the bit, 'till we threw a fit, 

While the steel grew cold and blue. 
With our sweaty face, 'twas a driving race. 

And our thoughts, tho' crude, were true. 

Careless we slaved, and careless we played, 

And reckless at last we came; 
To the rainbow's glow and life's big show 

In the blaze and the flare of fame; 
How they smirked and smiled, as wealth we piled, 

We were gods of a Mammon age; 
We were in the spell of wealth to dwell. 

And we talked like a slobbering sage. 

Now comes the thought, what price we bought 

The pleasure, and tinsel, and fraud; 
Have we played a square game in winning our fame. 

Are we still the noble works of God? 
Or has grasping for gold shriveled our soul 

And blighted a life free from care? 
Now what would we give, to go back there and live 

Where wild flowers scent the pure air? 

Where birds sound a warning of the sunburst of morning. 

That blends with the beam's plaintive whine, 
And the whispering breeze converse with the trees, 

And pure mountain water our wine; 
Then our bits cut the ditch, now we are rich, 

With all that riches can buy. 
Have we counted the cost in what we have lost? 

Then why for the old life do we sigh? 



54 LUBRICATIONS 



EDWIN L. DRAKE 

The Dreamer 

'T'HOU, the dreamer, hast builded cities where silence 

reigned supreme; 
Thy vision was within the soul — and peered behind the 

future screen. 
Amid pastoral scenes where sang the lark, thy sobs and 

tears came from a broken heart, 
And blended with the sneers and jeers of little men whose 

views were swart. 
Through unknown ages the voice of destiny called to 

thee from out the vast, 
To hew the way, to blaze the trail through unknown 

rocks, the cloth of courage at thy mast. 
Since thou hast pioneered the way — the jagged spires of 

wood and steel pierce the new world's sky; 
The pregnant earth yields wealth — but not for thee; her 

golden fluid is but thy dream's reply. 
Homes of wealth and luster are set upon the land that 

thou hast found. 
Through hurts and chills and hungry cries within thyself, 

no kindly one to sooth the wound; 
Three score and two years have past. A thoughtless pub- 
lic is roused to honor now thy name. 
In brick and stone and flaming torch — a marble bust in 

the hall of fame. 
Gold pours from corners of the earth that gave thee 

name and gave thee birth, 
In honor of thy glorious deeds to us poor mortals of this 

earth. 
A public benefactor thou! Thy genius is God's greatest 

gift; 
It pulses through the touring car and splits the fleecy 

clouds adrift. 
Oh! wondrous mind! What highways open up their scenes 

to thee! 




EDWIN L. DRAKE 



LUBRICATIONS 55 

Centuries unborn will rise and praise the conquerors of 

the air and sea; 
Walls may crumble, empires fall, islands will rise from 

out the sea; 
But the dreamer's work goes on and on and blends with 

all eternity. 
To thee, Edwin Drake, and your pioneer soul, that's why 

we honor thee now — 
Thou hast made the world richer with happier homes; to 

a world's benefactor we bow. 



TELL THEM AGAIN TO ME 

/^OME, tell me a tale of pioneer days. 

Of the early days in oil, 
Of Colonel Drake and Dan O'Day 

And the fighting of old George Coil; 
Tell us of days on the old Tarr farm. 

Of the boarding house up on the hill — 
Where coffee was handed to you lukewarm 

And the beans were cooked with skill. 
Tell me of days when John D. R. 

Had hair on his old bald pate; 
When Henry M. didn't own the car 

That he used to travel in state. 
Tell us of days of five dollar oil 

The day when Cal Payne pulled the tongs. 
When Archibald rested in peace from his toil 

And his life was one sweet song. 
Tell us of days when Cap Grace was a kid. 

Great heaven, that's too ancient, I fear; 
For that dates back before John and his lid 

Covered all the good leases that's here. 
Tell us of days of the Parker Exchange, 

Gee! What an unappropriate name! 



56 LUBRICATIONS 



For entering there you came without change 

As you bet on the other man's game. 
Tell of Ben Hogan when he was afloat 

Before he was converted and reborn, 
Of the living pictures he kept on the boat. 

With music and mirth until morn. 
Tell us of days when the Tooley was boss. 

When Yonkins "thumbed" carefully the clamps, 
And of days when Morgue Davis never was cross. 

And the producers were men and not tramps. 
Tell us of days when Ed Jennings was free, 

But he was never known to be that, 
Except when he paid the alderman his fee — 

At that so I've read he stands pat. 
Tell us of days of Bradford's deep snows. 

When John Eton drummed his own trade. 
And told to the buyer a tale of his woes. 

And his clothes were not tailor made. 

Tell them again, those pioneer days. 

How those giants dragged wealth from their toil; 
Of the Arbuckle Jav, the beans and the maize 

They were fed on while boring for oil. 
We never grow weary of the old, old tales 

Of the trials of that bold pioneer 
Who 'mid snow and ice and his own dinner pail 

Gave the comforts of home with its cheer. 
To the old pioneer we offer this toast: 

May your declining old days be serene; 
You've suffered on earth many a roast, 

When dead may your grave be kept green. 



LUBRICATIONS 57 



GENIUS 

T BEGAN with the creation, for I am the creator; 

■^ Years unborn will feel my magic touch; 

Stones will be reared to my dedication 

For my vassals are the years. 

No race, clime or condition claim me as their own, 

The scullion's cabin, or marble halls my home; 

I put the miracle solution in the brain of man, 

To stab the heavens with a comb of spires. 

The walls of empires crumble and fall. A tidal wave 

Sweeps from the sea, and undermines the rock, 

But I go on forever. The millions slave. 

I drag from mother earth her richest treasures 

And weave her jewels in a crown for man; 

The spring of eternal youth is but a step. 

When the wizard's brain receives the ban. 

Aye, the devil's work comes from my storehouse, 

The steel clad leviathans, the shot, the shell. 

The Nation's weapons but the warriors' hell. 

The trackless forests, the unchartered sea 

Are the printed pages of a book to me. 

For I'm the maker of charts, and blaze the way. 

The sprocket wheel, belts of steel, the whirling wheel 

Are the fabrics woven by my hand. 



58 LUBRICATIONS 



LAMENT TO BACCHUS 

r\ BACCHUS, God of Rum and Mail Pouch, 
^■^ My poor deluded Bacchus, would that I had drank 
The spirits for you. Rather had 1 smoked the pipe 
That gave me visions of gnomes and fairies. 
It is but true that fairies are not habitats of this earth ; 
Neither is the "Peach Limb" or the magnetic needle 
Used to find the precious fluid that mother earth 
Has hidden so carefully, for the ages past. 
You have been a good old sport, and wise as Solomon, but 
Alas! alas! you must remember the fate of the false 
Prophets of old. How sorry I am to tell you, that the 
Nutty houses are full of erring Oil Smellers; 
And the experts shake their heads and mournfully say. 
What a sad case, incurable and pitiful. 
Remember, O Bacchus, there is only a step between 
Experting the geological formation and "damn-foolish- 
ness." 
It is better, Bacchus, that you spend your time riding 
Through the mesquite and cactus, with the hot winds of 

Texas 
Fanning or burning your hardened cheek, than to spend 
Your time in trying to convince an unregenerate Oil Man 
Who seems to be hopelessly SANE. 

* Dedicated to well known oil man of similar name, a reported 
firm believer in tlie witch-hazel rod. 



LUBRICATIONS 59 



FAREWELL, DOCTOR BOOZE 

"VJJTE have all done well; we put you in a palace fit for a 
King; you were placed in the Hall of Fame in St. 
Louis — or was it the Hall of Infame — your name there 
was Adolphus Busch. We drank so much that we made 
your makers work at night at Peoria. Your pathway is 
strewn with broken wrecks and human derelicts; your 
meat and drink are the souls of men and the tears of 
women; you have been soul destroying, and you have 
put the key of all destruction in your name, and now 
when you have been routed from your last trench, and 
your breast has been torn open, we dedicate this little 
verse to you, Fallen King: 

You have been on the shelf, distinctly yourself, 
In containers that would fool the best eye; 

Sometimes on your back, you were called apple-jack. 
On others you looked like hair dye. 

They have brought you to town in a jug that was brown, 
They have hauled you around in a hearse; 

You've been shipped very often, in a rough-box and coffin. 
And you've grabbed every cent in our purse. 

From your very beginning, you've been chock full of sin- 
ning; 

You've joined hands with the loose fitting gowns; 
And eyes that were dearest, you've made them the blearest, 

Yet, you were handled real kindly in towns. 

But now. Uncle Sam, who is somewhat a man 

When he goes into training to fight; 
Says now it's my joy to take care of the boy, 

And see that he stays home at night. 



60 LUBRICATIONS 

So he says to the distiller, you're a mighty good feller, 
Like the bed-bug you live a mean way; 

And the farmer's good wheat is for my people to eat. 
That will build and not take strength away. 

So now. Doctor Booze, we'll bid you adieus, 

O'er your grave a tablet will say: 
"I have broken up homes, 'mid desolate moans, 

It was hell, but I sure had my day. 

I've enjoyed the great mirth of poisoning the earth; 

How I grin when the little ones cry! 
How I've gutted each life, bathed in tears of the wife, 

And I grin as I wave you good-bye." 



TEXAS 



TT'S a great big land 'way out yonder, 
■*■ With a sky of azure blue; 
Where the soft big moon is smiling 

On the sparkling drops of dew. 
Where roses bloom forever, 

And the wine-cups nod to the sun; 
Some say that God has cursed it. 

Others love its broad fields — 

And I'm one. 

I've mucked and slaved in the North-land, 

I've frozen and toiled in the West. 
I've followed my dreams in the East-land, 

But I love your broad fields the best. 
With your great big fields full of silence — 

Some say, 'tis a good land to shun; 
While others they coo to and pet it, 

And love its broad fields. 

And I'm one. 



LUBRICATIONS 61 

Mountains? Yes, there's mountains out yonder. 

Mountains that tower so high. 
That the men there will bet their last shekel 

That the clouds have to sidetrack to get by. 
Deserts? Well, I should say so, 

With mirages reflecting the sun. 
There are some that never would trade it 

For another land — 

And I'm one. 

It's a land that no weakling can live in, 

Unless there's red blood in his veins; 
Your past is forgiven, forgotten. 

If you'll hold the plow, or the reins; 
At first, you will hate it like blazes. 

You'll curse your fool self 'cause you've come, 
But soon you'll be like all others 

And swear its the best land — 

'Neath the sun. 

Love it? Well, I should say so. 

Because all your past is forgot; 
The castles you've built in dream-land 

Have grown to be real on the spot. 
Building your share of an empire. 

Rearing her walls stone by stone. 
In her spell, she grips and she holds you, 

God gave you this land for your own. 



62 LUBRICATIONS 



REQUIEM TO THE POWER THAT WAS 

nPHERE is crepe on the door of Congress, 

Some hearts are as heavy as lead, 
The talons that have throttled progress 

Have been clipped, and the King is dead. 
"The King is dead, long live the King!" 
On the Ides of March he was slain; 
The "Cannon" was spiked by the insurgent wing 
And they're waiting the funeral train. 

If I was a mourner at Joseph's bier, 

I would take my stand at his head. 
Where I would be safe to shed a tear 

With the assurance that he was dead. 
With his dying kick he may vex us. 

It is safer at the old mule's head. 
A smash in the insurgent solar plexus 

May stand what you've gained on its head. 

"So play the fife lowly, beat the drum slowly," 

Be sure the coffin-lid's screwed down tight; 
This song we will sing, it won't be unholy. 

There will be a "Hot time somewhere tonight." 
Satan awaits you, with hand out to greet you. 

Say, come, my old friend, I've waited you long. 
The light you will see will look rather blue. 

And the Imps will all join in the song. 



THE INVESTIGATING SPIRIT OF OUR 
CONGRESS 

Scripture: "The same yesterday, today and forever." 

TJJ/E'VE called our dummy Congress to investigate our 
^ beef, 

We have asked investigation on the ocean's rocky reef; 
We have asked investigation on the trust that makes the 

pins. 
We will ask investigation to the family having twins. 



LUBRICATIONS 63 

We've investigated cattle, we've investigated fields. 
We've investigated cotton crops to see how much it yields; 
We're investigating houses, we're investigating rents, 
We're investigating dollars, we're investigating cents. 
We're investigating forests, we're investigating plants, 
We're investigating underwear, we're investigating pants; 
We're investigating boozerine, we're investigating beer. 
We're investigating grouchiness, we're investigating 

cheer. 
We're investigating farmers, we're investigating soil, 
We're investigating pipe lines, we're investigating oil; 
We're investigating bankers to see why they are rich, 
But we haven't investigated the man that's in the ditch. 
We've investigated pulpits, we'll investigate the press. 
But we've not investigated the man that's in distress; 
We're investigating sober men, we're investigating drunks 
We're investigating satchels, we're investigating trunks; 
When we get thro' investigating the folks will all be broke, 
So stop it now, for heaven's sake, your actions are a joke. 



THANKSGIVING THOUGHT 

T ET me be thankful for the sunny day. 

Or in the evening glow, or when I hear 
Your footsteps passing on the way, 

Or your dear voice in trembling near, 
I find in it my hope, without despair. 

And every absent moment know the need 
Of that bright star that draws me to the lair 

Of happiness in happy greed. 
Let me remember all your love in life. 

The fragrance of the rose as wafted by. 
The smile of welcome from the wife. 

The laugh of children ringing high; 
The song that's whispered thro' the trees — 

I'm thankful, Lord, for all of these. 



64 LUBRICATIONS 



MY FLAG 

^VrOU give me my life and my liberty, 
-*■ You wave o'er the land of the free, 
You've always been right, conserving your might, 
And now it is checked up to me. 

I love every star in your make-up, 

My father's blood dyed your stripes red; 
And the white as I know is purer than snow, 
You've not waved o'er tyranny's head. 

You have called me to fight for your standard 

Of morality, virtue and peace. 
It seems to me right to go into this fight 

And stay until slavery shall cease. 

I will fight for you now, my old glory. 

And I'll not fight like a paid Prussian slave. 

The enemy I'll claw, right into his maw. 
And I will follow you into the grave. 

I care not where you will lead me. 

On England's, or France's sacred soil. 

Or Turkey or Russia, Austria or Prussia, 
For it's liberty and you that I moil. 

For you I will fight to the finish, 
For you, death is terrorless to me; 

When the day's work is done and the victories won, 
I will bring you unstained 'cross the sea. 



LUBRICATIONS 65 



JUST TIRED 

T AM going to leave it all — 
■*- The friend and the foe alike; 
I have smashed the old "dinner pail" 

Under my heel on the pike. 
I am leaving the hemlock cities, 

Leaving old pals of my toil. 
Great heavens, how I've loved it 
From rousting to boring for oil! 

Years I have toiled in your mire, 

Years I stood 'neath your beams. 
Delving at night by the flickering light 

For the "oil paying" sand of my dreams. 
Stood on the derrick's cold top 

When it staggered like a drunk from the strain 
Of the storm that twisted its girts 

And she whined like a puppy in pain. 

Stood there and tied the frozen line 

By the gleam of the lightning's flash. 
When no voice could be heard from below. 

No sound save the thunder's loud crash. 
Stood at the brake in the cold, 

Stood by you, in sadness and mirth. 
Drank from the pail the bitter black Jav 

But I couldn't drag wealth from your earth. 

My hair has grown gray in your harness. 

How I love you God only can tell; 
I am leaving you now, and forever 

Trying to get away from your spell 
That has twisted and bent my manhood — 

(God! how I've worked and perspired!) 
Fm not quitting because I'm not game. 

But because I've worked hard and I'm tired. 



66 LUBRICATIONS 



HIS OIL COUNTRY SHACK 

XT IS shack is as it used to be 
-^-■-Before he was called away; 
The wall is covered o'er with maps 

He marked from day to day. 
The pictures of himself and pals 

Are in their favored spot, 
A picture of some laughing girls, 

No thought of shell and shot. 

His baseball "mitt" is on the stand, 

His boxing gloves there too. 
That felt the pressure of his hand 

In happy days of youth; 
It was the room he long had kept. 

When he was just a scout. 
With pleasant dreams while he had slept 

But his country called him out. 

A picture of his mother there, 

With the smile his mother wore. 
And all the things that he held dear 

Are treasured as of yore. 
Into the room this soldier goes 

To bid his last farewell; 
His dreams are past, and well he knows 

He must face the shot and shell. 

He looks around the little shack. 

While tears bedim his eyes, 
And wonders if he will come back 

To Tulsa's azure skies. 
His mother's picture seems to say. 

Go, do your duty well, 
I'll watch you tho' I'm far away 

When you face the warrior's Hell. 



LUBRICATIONS 67 



^DER TAG" 

It Is Here 

^OU have had your foolish fancies, 
-*- In the visions saw it come; 
You have reared your sons to slaughter. 

Now they answer to the drum; 
You have toasted it, you have boasted it 

When your eyes were seeing red. 
You have trained the men to brain men 

And your fields are strewn with dead. 

You're embracing it, you're facing it, 

Your land is drenched with blood, 
There's no shaming it, no damning it. 

It's carrying you on its flood. 
You have thought of it, you have fought for it, 

Made guns with flaming shell; 
You have sighed for it, you've lied for it. 

Now you've got its belching hell. 

Are you satisfied, now it's ratified? 

What do mothers say 
Who kneel at night (for boys who fight) 

With streaming eyes to pray? 
Is it the happy day with its hellish pay 

That lays boys 'neath the sod? 
When the bugle blows o'er crimson snows, 

How will you meet your God? 

Author's Note— The German officers of the Army and 
Navy have had a toast "Der Tag," "The Day" for many 
years. It is here, November 1, 1914. 



68 LUBRICATIONS 



THE DEVIL'S SOLILOQUY ON THE KAISER 



I 



THOUGHT I knew some tortures, 

To blast the human soul; 
The heart aflame, transparent breast, 
Has made them all recoil. 
The red hot vat of molten lead, 
The pitchfork held aloft 
To pierce the eyeballs of the damned; 
But this method all is soft. 
Why, Bill, you take the babies. 
The wives and sweethearts dear. 
And mutilate and rape them 
And you drink their crystal tear; 
You pierce the tear-stained eyeballs. 
You mutilate the breast 
Of babes and virgin mothers. 
At your methods, Bill, I rest. 
You poison France's ozone 
With a gas more dread than mine; 
Your imps are found on every shore 
Like reptiles from the slime; 
You've made me sick at heart. Bill, 
My domain I will sell; 
So take it. Bill, in welcome. 
For I'm ashamed to run my hell. 

This was posted in France during the war by some of 
the boys in Major George Clulow's Sanitary Corps. 



LUBRICATIONS 60 



1909 

"WTHILE strolling along the highway 
''^ On a crisp December morn, 
The trees looked bleak and naked, 

The earth seemed dead and worn; 
I met an ancient being 

Wending slowly down the way; 
The face was bearded, wrinkled, 

The head was bald and gray. 

I accosted him quite cheerily. 

Whither goest thou old man? 
The wind is cold for one so old. 

Have you no kith or clan? 
Is there none at home to love you. 

No children to love and care? 
Nowhere a wife to cherish your life. 

Is there not someone, somewhere? 

You know me well, young man, quoth he — 

I once was in my prime; 
You herald with glee my birth, said he, 

For I'm the year nineteen hundred nine. 
You will soon welcome nineteen ten, 

And will place to his lips the wine 
Of hope and joy, to the restless boy. 

And forget nineteen hundred nine. 

I have come to the end; but a month remains. 

Just one page of the twelve to write; 
The good, the bad, the pain, the joy. 

And then I will say good night. 
Have you kept your pages clean and white. 

Or are they spotted and blotted with tears? 
Is it an open book where all can look. 

Can you review with pride the years? 



70 LUBRICATIONS 

For this old world I've done my best, 
No joy did I carelessly blight; 

So leave me alone, my trouble's soon done- 
To the young and the old, good night. 



TO 1914 



TJURRY up and get you gone, 
-*--'- You're the worst we ever saw; 
Strikes and wars, since early dawn 

Clawing, tearing at our maw; 
What you've done in your short life 

Can't be equalled by any years, 
With your horrors, blood and strife. 

Orphans made and widows' tears. 

Nineteen fourteen, you've been bad, 

Torn our homes by wrecks and wars; 
Now you're leaving we are glad. 

For we've had enough of Mars. 
Maybe you're not all to blame 

For the cruelty of your days, 
Mayhap the rulers are insane 

That drive to death the willing slaves. 

When behind time's veil you've passed. 

Immersed in blood, in passion rolled. 
We'll feel your sting while the world shall last- 

That's why we laugh as you grow old. 
My God! Old Year, what a mad carouse, 

Wasting hours in vain dispute, 
The harlot war has been your spouse, 

No year has borne such bitter fruit. 

You've only got a few days more 

To redden pages that once were white; 

The peaceful happy smile you wore 

Soon was stricken by frenzied blight; 



LUBRICATIONS 71 

And yet you smirked and smiled in glee, 

Before the spot-light of life's stage, 
And crooned your song in ecstasy, 

Which turned too soon to awful rage. 

With all your crimes and licensed lust. 

Your scattering whirlwind, fire and sword. 
That fills the cup with crumbled dust 

Of that well meaning, restless horde; 
We cannot blame it all on you. 

For vision's greed is 'filled desire; 
You gave some happiness, it is true, 

To others hell — like a soul on fire. 



THE WAIL OF THE FAT MAN 

T'D like to be a slender man 
-*- And wear a starched cravat; 
I'd like to look real spick and span. 
But gee! I can't, for I'm too fat. 

I'd like to look real slick and clean, 

With starched-up collar and all o' that, 

But when I do I feel so mean 
It's like a poultice, I'm so fat. 

I'd like the girls to say he's cute. 
When on the street with sailor hat. 

But they just turn their dainty snoot, 
I'm so damned hot, I am so fat. 

I want a club when on the street, 
A policeman's mace or baseball bat. 

To kill all idiots that I meet. 

Who says, "Ain't it fierce for one so fat?' 



72 LUBRICATIONS 



GIVE AND YOU SHALL RECEIVE 

T^HE picture gives richness for years and for years, 
-*- Yet forever its beauty will shine; 
It pleases the eyes, tho' it fills them with tears, 
But 'tis never affected by time. 

The rose sheds its fragrance to the breezes all day. 

The flower it can never despoil, 
'Till the hand of ripe age picks its petals away, 

And they drop, giving life to the soil. 

The rough marble yields to the sculptor's hard steel 
While he creates a child of his brain; 

It fills the dull room, in a sweet mute appeal. 
But for years and for years 'twill remain. 

The heart of the man is no less divine 
Than the picture, the statue or rose. 

Each give of their beauty, and thro' ages shine. 
So give — take your pay — in repose. 



TO JAMES WHITGOMB RILEY ON REGEIV 
ING THE DEGREE OF LL. D. 

TTOW are you. Doctor Riley? 
-*-•*• I trust you're well, today; 
Them Hoosier College fellers 

Have added to your name they say; 
It's gwine to be middlin' hard on us. 

But God knows it ain't a sin 
To have to call you, Doctor, 

'Stead of just plain Jim. 

But say, old pal, they jist can't help 

Givin' you honorable degrees. 
And if the boys that knew you 

Could distribute them LL. D.'s 



LUBRICATIONS 73 

They would take their golden nuggets 

As they yank 'em from the shock, 
And pawn them with their jewelry. 

Put their household goods in hock, 
To pay the earthly tribute 

To a character so fine. 
Who wrote in loving memory — 

"That Old Sweetheart of Mine." 

But if they place the alphabet 

At the end of that ole name, 
And each and every letter 

Comprised a wreath of fame — 
We know that that would be too small, 

And not a soul would mock 
At the pen that wrote that glowing verse — 

"When the Fodder's in the Shock." 

Jist following the good old Scriptures 

By conferring laurels on you. 
For in that good old book of ours 

It says, "Honor to whom honor is due." 
So we uncover our heads to you 

Because of your lofty soul. 
And love you for remembering your youth 

When you wrote "The Swimmin' Hole." 

In talking it over the other night. 

We thought it powerful kind 
That they show their appreciation 

Before you leave this world behind. 
America has had never an equal 

To you, James, in rhythmic art 
In that inimitable style of yours. 

You get into nature's heart. 
The Hoosier poet has earned his fame. 

But before he's laid on the shelf. 
We hope for more like that pathetic verse, 

"Good bye, Jim, Take Keer of Yourself." 



74 LUBRICATIONS 



MAY 30, 1908 

pLACE garlands of sympathy on the hero's grave, 
-*- Woven in tenderness with hands that are old, 
But once were so shapely, strong and so brave 
That they blended a nation, in freedom's mould. 

Lay on their biers the red, white and blue. 
With its cluster of stars, pure and white, 

The emblem of freedom, that waved in their view 
When the bugler called them to fight. 

Ground arms, stand with uncovered head. 

Fear not for the manly tear, 
But think of the glory of the death instead. 

For he smiles in heaven as you honor him here. 

He sees but the fragment of the army of yore 
Thro' mist of eternity, as the years onward roll, 

He stands with outstretched hands on the shore. 
To welcome old comrades at the call of the roll. 

He loved the old flag, my comrades, as you. 

And all thro' that fratricidal strife. 
He was not found wanting, he ever was true, 

And to keep it unsoiled, gave his life. 

The grand army's ranks are thinning apace, 
'Tis but the remains of the conquering array, 

That passed in review, with powder stained face, 
After God gave them a victorious day. 

But for some he has now sounded the taps, 

Those we are honoring today; 
Each year we will don the worn old traps, 

'Till we awake at the great reveille. 



LUBRICATIONS 75 



THE PANTS THAT MOTHER MADE 

fYTE can talk of home and mother, as through this life 
^ we go, 
Of the rich things that no other would attempt to make 

them so; 
How we used to rob the larder, how we raved about the 

cake. 
But we never even whisper 'bout the pants that Ma could 
make. 



All boys who on a farm have lived until the age of ten, 

Have something to be thankful for when they are grown- 
up men; 

They can thank the Lord for the Jersey cow, also the 
dairy maid 

That twitted us about our jeans, those pants that Mother 
made. 

Mother was an artist when it came to making pies; 

The bread she made was lovely, brown and light; 

She could bind the injured toe, dry the tear up in your 

eyes. 
Teach you how to say your little prayer at night; 
She could tell you Injun stories 'till she made you all 

afraid — 
Give us back those happy days, less the pants that Mother 

made. 

I remember when but a boy, I think about sixteen, 

A neighbor girl I longed for, that was witty, bright and 

keen. 
It seems to be but yesterday when Mother scrubbed my 

neck, 
And I soaped my hair and brushed it 'till it was nice and 

slick. 



76 LUBRICATIONS 

I started out with good intent to win that country maid, 
And wore the best clothes that I had — the pants that 
Mother made. 

And when I looked in the old cracked glass that hung 
beside the door, 

I thought how very well I looked and needed nothing 
more, 

Except to say that little speech that God and I only knew; 

And I started whistling from the house to see my lovely 
Lu. 

How Willie came to miss the goal while out on that pa- 
rade, 

Because they fit so blooming tight — those pants that 
Mother made. 

The speech was quite original; I had worked it up with 

zest; 
I met her, choked and stammered — God only knew the 

rest. 
I tried to hold her little hand; I knew she was very shy, 
I thought a kiss would help some, so at that I made a try; 
And in the wrestle that followed, poor Willie made a slip. 
When, holy horrors ! from the rear he heard an awful rip. 
His fondest hopes were blighted as he sat there scorning 

aid, 
Those pants were ripped from stem to stern — the ones 

that Mother made. 

Well, he sat there sullen, silent, 'till the sun had gone to 

rest. 
When he left his Lulu's presence he had his face toward 

the west; 
It became his embarrassing duty to walk backward out of 

sight. 
So with his back to the eastward, Willie edged away that 
night; 



LUBRICATIONS 77 

He had lost his time ai)d sweetmeats, for he'd a won that 

country maid, 
If they had bravely stood the strain — the pants that 

Mother made. 

Ofttimes the slightest accident turns the tide in a man's 

career. 
Had those pants stood up staunchly, I'd have won that 

little dear, 
Together with a section of Illinois' most fertile soil; 
And I'd have been husking pumpkins, 'stead of boring 

here for oil. 
But only to the one who knew my speech so well that 

night. 
Can we trust our future, knowing that He is always right. 
So I look upon it as my fate to have had on them tight 

breeches, 
I might have broken her young heart, instead of bursting 

stitches. 

Mothers all are jewels, loving well their reckless boys. 
Their memory's ever sacred, and our love without alloys. 
The mistakes she made in tailoring were all covered by 

the aid 
She gave when you tore the bosom from the pants that 
she had made. 



78 LUBRICATIONS 



BILL 

TJ7HY, Bill, it seems just the other day 
'* That you came here with us to stay; 
I was interested from the start 
To see how well you played your part. 
An' I always loved you — didn't I, Bill? 
Then you got sick at the start of the hill, 
An' I sat up nights and worried so 
For fear that you would never grow. 

Didn't I, Bill? 

An' then that time, Bill, that you and I 
Went to the Doctor — wait, there's a tear in my eye- 
It hurt me so to hear you cry; 
Then you got boils that came nigh 
Killing you outright, as sure as you're born. 
And some of those nights were long 'till morn; 
But you just fought it to the bitter end. 
And bye-and-bye you began to mend. 

Didn't you. Bill? 

And then you came back, fat and plump, 
And Bill, you had grown to quite a lump; 
And you smiled and wriggled into my heart, 
Yes, you did. Bill, you're mighty smart. 
Do you know I was dreaming the other night, 
What if angels came all decked in white, 
Say come with us where all is still 
I 'woke and said, "Don't take my Bill!" 

Didn't I, Bill? 




BILL 



LUBRICATIONS 79 



IF YOU WERE MINE 

TF you were mine I would not care 
*-If winter days were foul or fair; 
I'd work thro' summer's scorching sun. 
Thro' autumn rains, or mud, or slime — 
If 
you 
were 

mine. 

If you were mine you'd be my queen. 
An angel from the world unseen; 
Your lightest wish would be my will 
Thro' cloudy days the sun would shine — 

If 
you 
were 

mine. 

If you were mine the birds would sing 
With sweetest song the forest ring; 
The sparkling stream would laugh and play 
Their soothing words in rhyme — 

If 
you 

were 

mine. 

If you were mine this Christmas night, 
My dreams are true, I see the light 
Of Bethlehem's star, a child is given; 
The welkin rings through every clime 
You're not just here — 

But 
you 

are 

mine. 



80 LUBRICATIONS 



THE GIRL IN DIXIE 

TTjOWN in the land of Dixie where the cotton blooms 

^-^ and blows, 

Where the sun is bright and gleaming, and the crystal 

rivers flow; 
Where the maids are bright and pretty, with teeth of 

sparkling pearl, 
With hair of raven luster, dreamy eyes beneath the curl; 
The nose a Grecian profile, a ruby shapely mouth — 
She is the handsome child of Dixie, a native of the South. 

In her dreamy eyes so liquid, I have tried to read my fate 
When the evening sun was setting, or when the hour was 

growing late. 
I have painted her a picture, of the home with joy and 

bliss, 
I would barter all my birthright for the joy of one sweet 

kiss; 
For a drink of luscious nectar from her coral shapely 

mouth, 
I would eat the blazing sunshine that smiles down in the 

South. 

I would eat the blazen sunshine, I would dive in Hell's 

abyss, 
I would drain the mighty ocean if commanded by that 

Miss; 
I would sigh, I would cry, I would drink Red River dry — 
But not for her or any other woman would I go off and 

die. 



LUBRICATIONS 81 



MEMORIES OF VALENTINE 

/^NE time I wrote a tender line — 

A tender line. 
I wrote it to a maiden fair 
With tender eyes and woozy hair; 
She was my Valentine, 
My Valentine. 

Her father he was old and mean, 

No tenderloin. 
And when he saw the line I wrote, 
He said, "Your hip and thigh I'll smote;" 
And then he entered on the scene, 

O, tender-loin. 

He grabbed me where my collar slantz. 

The ugly brute. 
He tried to poke my black eyes out. 
He wrung my neck, turned me about 
And kicked me in the pantz 

With heavy fute (foot). 

Years have gone since that tender line — 

O, tenderloin! 
That foot it quenched the burning fire. 
And since that time I've no desire 
To write a tender line, my Valentine, 

Sweet Valentine. 



82 LUBRICATIONS 



WHEN MOTHER'S GONE 

THE floors are covered o'er with dust. 
The stove is getting red with rust, 
The dog he howls the livelong day, 
Since Mother's gone away. 

The dust is thick upon my chair, 
There's cobwebs sticking in my hair; 
The blooming hens have ceased to lay 
Since Mother's gone away. 

The grass has grown long and dry. 
The old hens cackle, but they lie; 
The ice man cheats me every day 
Since Mother's gone away. 

There is trouble here, to make me drink. 
With scrubbing floors, and rugs, and sink; 
I stepped upon a tack today. 
It hurt me worse since Ma's away. 

No man can ever live alone. 
When Mother's gone he gnaws a bone; 
His bare feet trod thro' sand and clay 
When Mother's gone away. 

Come back, come back from 'way up North, 
We miss you, girl, we know your worth; 
We'll drudge and toil the livelong day, 
If you'll please hurry home to stay. 



LUBRICATIONS 83 



AT FIFTY-FIVE 

A BROKEN and battered old derelict 
-^^ On the out-going tide afloat, 
Abandoned by youth in the conflict, 

A rudderless, aimless old boat; 
Beaten by seas of merciless time. 

The hand is old at the wheel; 
The eye cannot the shoals define 

That youth instinctively feel. 

At fifty-five the dream is o'er, 

It is now the gray of Fall; 
God held out to you his bountiful store. 

But it is now beyond recall. 
The rose has exuded its fragrance to you 

The petals have dropped by the way, 
The sunshine, the rain, the tremulous dew 

Cannot prolong its sweet life one day. 

The youthful brook with babbling song 

Has swelled the river's breast. 
And now majestically swings along 

To mingle with the ocean's crest. 
The fuels consumed by time's cruel hand. 

The heart has no rhythmic tone; 
You're only a derelict, pathetic or grand, 

As you come, so you go, all alone. 



84 LUBRICATIONS 



A WARNING TO COLORED BROTHERS 

■pjE comet am a-comin', you niggers mus' look out — 
-*-^ It's gwine to bus' dis worl' in two and put de lights 

all out; 
De passon ob de colored church say de sun will sure 

stan' still, 
Den you chilly blooded niggers will get heated 'til you fill; 
De odder night I hearn it roar jes' like a water spout, 
Dai comet's gwine to git ye, 'f yo' don' watch out. 

So Brudder George and Brudder Bill, you'd better jine de 

church ; 
And Sister Sal and Sister Sue don' be left in de lurch; 
An' Deacon Sam de time have cum to put dat rooster in 
White Man Henry's chicken-coops, for stealin' am a sin; 
An' loosen up your old stiff j'ints and pray and sing and 

shout — 
For de comet's gwine to get you ef you don' watch out. 
An' Brudder Eaf, de Lawd done seen yo' shootin' craps 

las' night, 
An' saw you flip de dice by hand — you know dat dat's not 

right; 
An' Sister Sue, de Lawd done saw you swipe dat bolt of 

lace 
An' put it 'neath yo'r apron when the clerk done turned 

his face; 
He sees it on yo'r petty-coat when you go gaddin' 'bout — 
And the comet's gwine to get you ef you don' watch out, 
Yo' men folks been a singin' "Will dere be stars in my 

crown?" 
An' thinkin' of a yaller gal dat lives jes' out en town; 
An' you, Amanda Melia Brown, dat in our choir sings, 
Ye'd better put yo'r mind on Gawd, 'stead of hats an' 

things; 
For de comet am a-comin', yo'll hear St. Peter shout — 
Dat comet's gwine to git ye, ef yo' don' watch out. 



LUBRICATIONS 85 



WHO'S TO BLAME 

LED from the path of virtue, 
When the shadows had grown long, 
Down where the cardinal lights gleam, 

Down 'mid the ribald's song; 
Petted by saucy harlots 

Who looked with drink-crazed eyes 
Into the chasm, eternity. 

Away from the smiling skies. 

Into that chamber of horrors. 

Thro' its vile-smelling stench 
Of unclean and blood-smelling women, 

The waiter a vile-smelling wench; 
Saw we all this in one evening. 

While the moon hid her face in her shame. 
Tell me, old man, where's the pleasure 

To the man who claims he is sane. 

Who is to blame for the brothel— 

Where shall we fasten the crime? 
Just look in your heart, old fellow, 

Yours and others, and mine; 
It's our palace of Hell— don't forget it— 

The reaper reaps just what he sows; 
Posterity may still be in dream-land. 

Recruits from our own home. "Who knows?' 



86 LUBRICATIONS 



GOING HOME 

CAY, did you ever start for home 
*^ At the pull of the old heartstring, 
To see the paths where you used to roam 

And drink from the old rock spring? 
The train that bore you homeward 

Seemed to creep 'long like a snail, 
The click of the wheels singing onward 

As they jumped the splice in the rail; 
And you came in sight of Bear Creek, 

Where you've sat and fished and fished. 
And in your boyhood fancies. 

You have dreamed, and wished, and wished. 
That the fairy that you've read about 

Would come with his team of greys, 
And carry you off to fairyland, 

A prince to end your days. 
And when your journey's ended 

And the train is standing still. 
No old friends there to meet you 

And your eyes begin to fill 
At the absence of some friendly face, 

At the town so old and worn. 
That you ask yourself the question- 
Is this where I was born? 
Well, you've dreamed your dreams 

And the picture don't bring joy. 
The things that you are seeing 

Are not seen with the eyes of a boy. 
But, O kind God, how my heart ached 

When I stood before the door. 
To be met with the face of a stranger 

That I'd never seen before; 
I leave the old home with its memories 

And go to the old church lot, 
Reading these lines on the marble: 

"Gone, but not forgot." 



T 



LUBRICATIONS 87 



TWAIN IS DEAD 

On the Death of Mark Twain (Samuel L. Clemens) 

'HE bells have tolled — his sun has set; 

The line of friends is passing by 
With leaden tread of funeral step; 

The wind is whispering a lonely sigh 
For poor, for rich, the great, the small — 

The nation stands with lowered head. 
And says he's gone beyond recall, 

His name revered, tho' Twain is dead. 

He loved the world — the world loved him — 

He made it laugh with joyous mirth; 
In man he ne'er condemned the sin 

To him inherent from his birth; 
But when he plied his witching pen 

Flowers bloomed o'er the invalid bed. 
They forget their pain and again were men — 

What's left for them since Twain is dead? 

Gone where angels always sing. 

He'll find a harp that's tuned aright. 
And to those airy visions bring 

A spirit just as pure and white; 
'Mid angel's song he'll find a place 

With jeweled crown upon his head, 
The same sweet smile upon his face — 

He lives forever, though Twain is dead. 



88 LUBRICATIONS 



THANKSGIVING 

'T'HE roar of a war is in our ears, 
-■- And our hearts are sad within. 
Have we purchased our peace with craven fears? 
If so, it's the unpardonable sin. 

Can WE thank God, the bloody strife 

Is across the rolling wave? 
And shirk a duty dearer than life 

And thank God for the gold we save? 



FRIENDSHIP 



TF you should ask of any teacher — 
-*-What is best of all the treasures? 
How of good things get your measures 
Filled to full and overflowing; 
If you ask him, he will tell you: 
Not from drink, and wine get pleasures. 
Not from gold, or silk, or satin. 
Not from Greek, or French, or Latin; 
But from friendship pure and holy. 
From a tree with life's fruit ripened, 
Branches of fine men and women. 
He would tell you without stipend 
How God made in his own image 
Men, and women loyal, loyal; 
Left it not to families royal. 
But to all his lovely creatures, 
Kind of heart and sweet of features; 
Made he all the men and women 
With a hallowed brow of light. 
This the toast that now I greet you, 
To renew the bond of friendship, 
Faithful as the stars of night. 



LUBRICATIONS 89 



GANANDAIGUA IN A FRENZY 

'Y'OU do not laugh and sing and play 
-*- With lips serene as yesterday; 
Instead, your screaming white-caps yell, 
Like a human soul in the depths of Hell. 
Are you jealous of the drops of rain 
That nourish the rose on the sun-baked plain, 
Or are you scared at the lightning's flash, 
Are you hysterical at the thunder's crash? 
For shame, for shame, on you, sweet lake: 
To all your beauty and rhythm forsake. 
And stick out your tongue like a naughty kid 
Because "Old Jove" pulls off the lid. 
Gome back and sing your sweetest lay, 
I like you better as yesterday. 



WHY NOT? 



/^NCE I was a happy fellow, 
^-^In gladsome spring or autumn yellow- 
Hunting for some good in man, 
Something after God's own plan; 
Picked up Tom, who seemed so fine, 
Thought I'd found a man divine; 
But beneath his velvet hide, 
Was something that his face denied. 
In his image God had made 
That was all his stock and trade; 
When I saw the life within, 
'Twas a seething mass of sin. 
Then I tried George, Dick and Dan 
For an honest Godly man; 
In each case was faults, I found; 
Some apparent, some profound; 
And I thought why prick a bubble. 



90 LUBRICATIONS 

Why hunt disappointments, trouble? 

For in every man I meet, 1 1 

And in women on the street, 1 

I find something good and clean, 

Then why pick out that which is mean? 

Then I ceased to look within; 
Looked for truth instead of sin; 
Was surprised the pure in mind — 
NEVER will I look behind. 



WHEN I AM FIFTY AND YOU ARE FIVE 

W/"HEN I am fifty, and you are five, 

" And the world to you is bright; 

As the morning sun unveils the east 

And pushes back the night; 
And birds sing blithely — and flowers bloom 

'Till the air with perfume's rife. 
And your golden hair has no line of care — 

For I am fifty — and you are five. 

When I am fifty, and you are five, 

And you have never a care; 
While I see trees with their yellow leaves 

Standing bleak and bare; 
The spring of youth is beyond recall. 

It is parched and blackened by strife. 
And the "Night-birds" call— to me 'tis fall— 

For I am fifty — while you are five. 

When I am fifty, and you are five. 

With you life's journey's begun. 
The rose strewn path of youth is yours. 

While my life's journey's done. 
May the darkest night show a ray of light 

That will brighten your path of life, 
And zephyrs croon, to a life in bloom — 

When you are fifty and five. 



LUBRICATIONS 91 



THAT PRE-NUPTIAL TIN SHOWER 

TTOW dear to your heart is this, your "tin shower," 
-■-■- When the "stew-pans" are "stewed" and the buckets 

turn pail; 
While the din in the house is like the clang of a power, 
Or a dog racing by with some "cans" on his tail. 

The tinware I hand you is bright and full measure 
When filled with the happiness drawn from life's spring. 
May you look at this bucket as full of sweet pleasures. 
And "can" all the strife with the songs that you sing. 



VIOLETS 



'T'HE buds I send are from a friend, 
■*- They match your eyes of blue. 
They carry joy from your dear old boy 
Because he's found you true. 

Their lingering perfume gladdens your room 
When the petals are withered and gray; 

Yet the message they bring is a voice of spring 
And birds sing their roundelay. 

I plucked them while here, for you, my Dear, 
They'll be crushed, when they come, out flat, 

But the love they bring in life's the thing, 
From a guy you know that is fat. 



92 LUBRICATIONS 



WOULDN'T THIS BE A DREAM? 

TF the sun was always smiling, 
-*- Floating down life's turbid stream, 
Filled with scented hours beguiling — 
Wouldn't that be a dream? 



If your friends were all in harmony, 
And the milk of kindness cream. 

And life would have no irony — 
Wouldn't that be a dream? 

When you wouldn't need a backbone. 
Nor a safe your gold to screen; 

The judge would burn his Blackstone — 
Wouldn't that be a dream? 

And your banker greets you smiling, 
Renews the old note calm, serene. 

With nary a curse reviling — 
That sure would be a dream. 

If politics were played near square, 
Where the deck is plainly seen, 

And keep the promise given fair — 
Wow! that would be a dream. 

Some happy days of life are spent 

In building castles fair; 
In youth our dreams are pleasure bent, 

Like bubble filled with air. 

In middle life we've drunk the gall, 
The fruit, the wine, the cream. 

But the yellow days are best of all — 
Life's sunsets evening dream. 



LUBRICATIONS 93 

THE HOME ON THE RIVER HILL 

TTOW I have dreamed and dreamed to possess my 

■*--*- father's estate, 

When the evening twilight is fading, and the day is grow- 
■ ing late! 

] How I have conjured in my memory the scenes of rock 
I and rill 

I And a mirage passes before me — of the home on the river 
and hill. 

I love it, I love it, with a love that's ever true. 

From its tangled wooded pathway to the starry dome 

of blue, 
Where the cricket chirps at the window when all but he 

is still. 
And mother's evening song is heard at the home on river 

hill! 

The stranger sees no beauty that lived on that hallowed 

spot. 
Yet the picture I see in life's evening, is by a Master 

wrought. 
At the faces painted on memory's tile my eyes begin to fill 
There is one of the dear old Mother — at the home on the 
river hill. 

God took pains in designing, builded it rugged and grand. 
Colors that blend. Oh! Divinely, painted by the Infinite 

hand; 
I've traveled along the great white way — drank from the 

hidden still, 
But I'm going back to the home, sweet home — that home 

on the river hill. 



94 LUBRICATIONS 



FATHER'S GOT A JOB 

IVrO more he'll cook delicious cakes 

-•-^ In the late or early morn; 

No more he'll sleep, 'til the sun awakes 

With its golden beams so warm; 
No more he'll pose as a wealthy guy. 

No more poor farmers rob; 
Up with the sun, will be his cry, 

For father's got a job. 

It's been so long that he forgets 

When last he had a place, 
It seemed he'd join the never-sweats 

And loafed around with grace; 
No more he'll join the kids at play 

Or leave home with a sob; 
No more at home he'll be a jay, 

For father's got a job. 

His daughter now at school can say 

With sincere and girlish laughter. 
My father toils from day to day, 

Has ceased to be a grafter. 
He'll now come home, cross like a bear, 

From playing with a snob; 
The house will all be hushed with fear. 

Since father's got a job. 



LUBRICATIONS 95 



SPRING TROUBLES 

TJ7HEN the springtime skies are bluest, 
" And maidens' hearts are truest, 
And the birds are mating, singing all the while; 

When trees are blooming their bloomest 
And daylight comes the soonest — 
It's April, take your fishing pole and smile. 

When wifey's temper's the meanest (This don't go if 
she hears it) — 

And she cleans the house the cleanest. 
Then she makes you beat the dusty microbe rugs; 

When you climb the ladder highest 
You stand like a highdivest, 
You are cleaning out the microscopic bugs. 

When your lyre is the lyrest. 

And your troubles are the direst. 
And you're falling over chairs that's in the way. 

And you trip and fall the fallingest. 
With language that's appallingest, 
Then you want to kick sweet April into May. 

When your meals are always coldest. 

And your wife looks years the oldest, 
And the beds all look like scrapheaps, by ging! 

You long for day's completest, 
When wifey smiles the sweetest, 
Before housecleaning days in early spring. 



96 LUBRICATIONS 



HALLOWE'EN 

'T'HIS is the night when Fairies light 
■- And gnomes and brownies dance, 
In yellow days — their splendors blaze — 

While their spritely ponies prance; 
The moon is hid — as if a lid 

Concealed her pallid beam, 
For turnip night and jack-o-light — 

For this is Hallowe'en. 

Along Kanawha's winding banks, 

'Mid tanglewood and dell, 
The sprite that rules the marshal ranks 

And o'er us casts his spell — 
Shows us the place where lover's face 

Is mirrored in the stream, 
The face of sweetheart there is traced — 

If wished on Hallowe'en. 

This is the night when jack-o-light 

Casts lurid flickering flame; 
When chestnuts ripe are baked aright 

And each is given name; 
With its noisy pops, the chestnut hops 

At your future spouse, I ween, 
With blushes red and lowered head— 

You are pledged on Hallowe'en. 




^^ 



^; 



LADDIE 



LUBRICATIONS 97 



LADDIE 

T AD is dead? Well, well, that's a sin, 
-*^ The best friend man ever had; 
He always looked for what's within, 

Tho' clothes were ragged, torn and bad; 
Lad really did not have a care 
Of how his friends would part their hair. 

Once I heard him bark with glee 

And run, and yelp, and jump with joy; 

And one would wonder how that he 
Would love that ragged, dirty boy. 

But Lad just looked at the heart within 

And that was what Lad liked in him. 

Lad was just an ornery, curly cur, 

A mongrel dog, not of the royal brood; 

Yet on his loyalty there never was a slur, 
For thro' the ages past was honest blood. 

Lad was just a mangy hybrid, it is true, 

But can Lad's faithful acts be said of you? 

Lad won no ribbon at a canine show. 

He never won a bloody fight; 
He was part and parcel of all the dogs you know, 

But 'neath his flea-bit hide his heart was right. 
There may be some advantages in one's birth, 
But nothing better than Lad's on earth. 

And when Lad came to take the step, 

He never thought of boys who canned his tail, 

But shivering at the door he'd yelp. 

When opened, whine his mournful tale. 

And somehow thro' that veil and fog 

He'll find the heaven for an honest dog. 



LUBRICATIONS 



SPRING 

T^HE wind has been in the South for a couple of days. 
-*- It is mellowed by the sunshine and my old body is 
being warmed by its breath. The sweet-voiced songsters 
are beginning to carol from a winter of silence, and the 
bright, beautiful laughing child of Spring with her fra- 
grance, her variegation in coloring, is here again, to love 
and enjoy. The Muse whispers to the receptive ear: 

O gentle, soothing, balmy spring, 

A million tongues your praises sing; 

'Mid bursting buds the blue birds flit, 

And calves are peeping through the slit 

Of Paris gowns, neath silken hose; 

The neck is bare where the wish-bone grows, 

And if there is no other thing 

These signs would indicate it's Spring. 



OUR DAY DREAMS 

TN the sanctity of our little home, 
-*- Away from the toil and strife; 
Our day dreams come when we are alone. 
They're the happiest moments of life. 

The dreams we have twixt downy sheets 
May be hazy, or lurid, or wild; 

Our battles are fought, we feel defeat. 

Our day dreams are soothing and mild. 

No holocaust we see or business care, 

No falls down, down below; 
No maniac roams with disheveled hair 

In our day dreams while the zephyrs blow. 



LUBRICATIONS 99 

The pictures we draw in fancy there, 

The castles we build will stand; 
The fragrance we breathe of flowers rare 

Are nurtured by fancy's hand. 

The old easy chair, the grim pictured wall 
Where in day dreams we often trace. 

The name of loved ones that answered the call, 
And our fancy takes shape of a face. 

Tho' time has traced his lines in her hair. 
The sweet old face that love imparts; 

You start when you find her standing there. 
The best the bravest of all sweethearts. 



ALL HIS LABORS ARE VAIN 

T AM the man that wrote the song 
-■- On "Kitty's wooden leg"; 
'Twas I that made the "Goose" 
That laid the "golden egg." 

I'm the man that trained the Giants 

In all points of the game 
That put them on the highest round 

Of baseball's ladder of fame. 

It was I that invented the auto. 

Also the pneumatic brake 
That will stop a car in thirty feet. 

Unless there's a life at stake. 

'Twas I that made old Morgan rich 

By not following my advice; 
I started the panic of last November 

Betting on loaded dice. 



100 LUBRICA TIONS 

I wrote all Harding's special messages 

He sent to Congress this year; 
But my brain factory was on the bumsky 

When I made the brains that were there. 

I snatched electricity from the blue realm, 

Broke it to drive and ride; 
I made the machine to register the fare, 

But the conductor's hands are all tied. 

I invented the mill for distilling the juice 

Of Eden's forbidden fruit 
That made Mother Eve make dresses; 

I designed the Merry Widow so cute. 

It is true that I am an author of note. 

Of rhymes and philosophical freaks. 
But by the long beard of the prophet of old, 

I deny writing that story "Three Weeks." 

You will see by the above that I'm a wonderful man 
In physics and with my versatile pen, 

But I doff my lid to that inventive mind 

That has designed the double-barrelled hen. 

Moral — It is better to accomplish one great act in 
life than to attempt a score. 



TO OUR GOOD FRIEND $$$$ 

XT AVE you read about the microbes 
-•^ That infest the dollar bill? 
Ninety million so they say 

On each bill in the till; 
Since reading all about it — 

And disease don't seem remote — 
I've decided to drop Friend William, 

And use a nice clean note, 



LUBRICATIONS 101 

You can get easy at any bank 

So new and clean and white, 
But the ones that drive me crazy 

Are the ones that are written "at sight." 
So what's the use to worry 

About the insects that's on Bill? 
When a feller never has one 

His simple wants to fill. 
But I have always noticed 

That the man with the largest wad 
Is usually among the last ones 

To be called to meet his God. 
So the Doctor better come again, 

Or stick to his box of pills. 
For they're indeed, a friend in need. 

Those dirty, microbic bills. 



THE OLD BUCKET SHOP 

TTOW dear to their hearts is the wire they attended, 
-"- When the blooming old world took a rose tinted view; 
How we squirmed and we kicked at the pin that they 
bended 
That broke us in purse, when we left the office quite 
blue. 
The face they recall of the small "Tin-Horn Gambler" 
As he dragged from his pockets the shekels so new, 
They turned him loose sad, yet a homeless wanderer. 
The thieving old bucket shop, the crooked old bucket 

shop. 
The entrancing old bucket shop that we all have 
known. 

How well I remember, I think last September, 
I thought I would take just one little flight; 

I bought of June wheat — they called it September — 
But what the man did to me was simply a fright. 



102 LUBRICATIONS 

I hear them reviling, while I sit a-smiling 

At poor Uncle Sam with his coat off to fight; 

The jury's been stung by the shop's smooth conniving 
And are ready to give them one long endless night. 

The crooked old bucket shop, the skin game bucket shop, 
The bucket shop that gets you and deprives you of 
home. 



IF I SHOULD DIE TONIGHT 

TF I should die tonight, 

-*- And one would come to my cold and lifeless clay, 

Take my clammy, stiffening hands, and say, 

"Bill, you have fought our battles w^ell," 

I'd rise up, and in my wrath I'd say, "Oh, go to hell!" 

If I should die tonight. 

And some supineless creature'd come 

With flowers for the good I'd done, 

I'd push right up that coffm lid 

And ask him frankly what he did 

While I w^as here to fan the flame 

Of work worth while; then drop dead again. 

If I should die tonight. 

And take the steps to an unknown land. 

And one would come and clasp my hand 

And say: "Poor old Bill, he's with the blest; 

We pray for calm, eternal rest." 

I'd point my finger in his face and say: 

"What did you do to smooth the way 

Through a life of grief, of tears, of pain?" 

I'd tell him what a chump he'd been, 

And then drop dead again. 



LUBRICATIONS 



103 



DEM GUYS NEXT DOOR 

THERE'S a pigeon on my awning. 
There's some sparrows on my sill, 
The pigeon's busy cooing 

While the youngster sucks his bill; 
But I never mind the sparrow 

Or the pigeon any more; 
But it digs into my marrow 

At the guys that sit next door. 

When my work progresses fairly 

At the closing of the day 
I hear them say, deal squarely. 

How much will it cost to stay? 
Come on, old sport, put in your dough, 

Don't let 'em make you sore, 
A pair of ladies, don't you know, 

I hear from my next door. 

And then it's quiet for a spell, 

Just riffling, shuffling sound, 
Then somebody says, "0, hell," 

Go deal those cards around. 
I hold four kings and a little ace. 

That makes an awful roar." 
And what is said is out of place 

From the guys that are next door. 



w 



WHEN THE ICE IS IN THE RYE 

HEN the cold winds blow a hurricane across the 
northern coast, 

An' you stir the blooming fire just to give your shms a 
roast; 

An' you drink a quart of bitter dope to cure that hack- 
ing cough. 



104 LUBRICATIONS 

An' you drink your Tom and Jerrys with your pedals in 

the trough. 
It is then you think of Texas with her big, briglit, smiling 

sky, 
And swear you'll cuddle in her arms when the ice is in 

the rye. 

When old March, that windy, bilious, bilging, roaring 

month. 
That digs down to the marrow and your clothing don't 

give warmth. 
An' your nose is like a sugar tree, sap running down your 

lip; 
An' you curse the beastly weather as the "boneset tea" 

you sip. 
An' as the goose flesh creepeth down your quivering back, 

you sigh — 
For old Texas' balmy weather when the ice is in the rye. 

When you go to bed at night time, an' between the sheets 

you creep, 
'N instead of prayers its curses, for there's snow upon 

your sheet; 
The alarm clock with its rattle indicates another day, 
'N you crawl out like a snail from your eiderdown and 

hay, 
'N you long for dear old Texas where the mornings all 

are dry, 
'N the cactus is a bloomin' and the ice is in the rye. 

If you come to Texas you'll spike the cannons of that 
cough. 

But altho' the sky is smiling, I advise don't take 'em off; 

Altho' she's sweet and pleasant, yet she holds in her em- 
brace 

One of them ding-burned northers that has whiskers on 
his face; 

And if you've donned the B. V. D.'s it may git an' you'll 
die. 

And the flavor will be lost to you, when the ice is in the 
rye. 



LUBRICATIONS 105 



OPTIMISTIC BILL 

DID you ever know Bill Davis? 
Well, I'm sure you've missed a treat. 
Bill alius had a smile for you 

No matter how bad he was beat. 
In a boss trade, or a land deal. 

It was all the same to Bill; 
He smiled and took his medicine 
No matter how bitter the pill. 

Well, Bill planted twenty acres of wheat 

Down in his bottom land. 
And when the wind rippled through it 

I tell you it looked hiighty grand; 
But an awful storm struck that valley. 

They called it a water spout; 
It flooded the entire valley 

And washed Bill's wheat all out. 
The neighbors all came to condole him, 

But Bill, with a smile so bland, 
Said, "Now, don't worry, neighbors. 

You see it has left the land." 

Bill had hardly recovered 

From the effect of the water spout. 
When his barn was struck by lightning. 

But he got his horses out. 
Again his friends all came 

To view his misery; 
But with a smile perpetual, 

"I've saved my stock you see. 
And then the old barn was rotten. 

And for some time has been too small- 
ni build me up another one, 

I'll have it done by fall." 



106 LUBRICA TIONS 

Do you know that persecuted feller 

Just got started to build that barn, 
When a cyclone struck his residence 

And blew it off his farm. 
Again the neighbors came to Bill 

And offered their sympathy, 
And Bill smiled on and pointed out 

That he'd saved his family. 
He thought the house was far too small 

And he was going to tear it down. 
He needed a bigger and better one — 

He'd have the lumber sent out from town. 

Bill was the very best feller 

That ever the Lord let live; 
Wherever charity was needed 

Bill was always willing to give. 
There's no use of us talking, neighbor. 

His equal was hard to find, 
For no matter how caustic his neighbors got 

They were always sure to find 
Bill beaming down on them; 

No matter how uncomfortable the seat. 
But the hardest luck Bill ever had 

Was when he lost both of his feet. 
His good friends all were so sorry 

Of the accident, so I'm told. 
And thought to hear him complaining. 
But Bill, he only smiled wanly. 

And said, "Well, they always were cold." 

I'd rather have Bill's disposition 
And go through life on them pegs, 

Than go about borrowing trouble 
Like some that have good legs. 






LUBRICATIONS 107 



THE GRAFTER 

'T'HE grafter, O the grafter, has no reason to complain, 
-*• The money from the sweat-shops and the babies are 

his gain; 
He scorns the decent people, he dotes on vice and crime, 
Thinks the preachers in the pulpit should all be doing 

time; 
He sneers at buoyant laughter, and he chokes the sweet- 
est song. 
To his degenerate brain, God is always wrong. 

The grafter, O the grafter, have you met him in your path. 
Have you seen his sordid head-lines, and words of vicious 

wrath? 
Instead of printing upright news, the sheet is full of lies, 
He is the master criminal, that good men all despise. 
We can stand the ignoramus, the idiot and all — 
But we MUST crush this viper, the grafter and his gall. 



TO MY BOOK 



T^HE days I have wasted on you, little book, 
-*- The hours I have spent in my den's quiet nook. 
Where you and I have conspired alone. 
Weaving our fancies, and dreaming of home. 

You're selfish of me as a lover true — 

Awake you beckon — I dream of you; 

You have taken me away from friends that are dear, 

You have made me a hermit, without shedding a tear; 

For the friends that I've lost, but the time I've employed, 

In the creation of you has been greatly enjoyed. 



108 LUBRICATIONS 

Do I love you, old friend? Aye, look in my heart, 
Don't you see you're myself, and that the best part? 
How well do I know you and all that's within 
Each of us. The only ones wronged by my devotional sin 
Are friends — some unloyal, yet some that are true, 
But I never can tell them what I can tell you. 

Sometimes you take me from business away, 

But in that you are wrong, for there'll come a day, 

A decision is made twixt you and my bread. 

Then the wise will be wiser, will not point to their head, 

When we pass along, but will grasp the hard hand 

That has fondled you so tenderly, my silent brigand. 

But wherever I go I'll find none that will cleave 

Like you, my old friend; nowhere on earth can I leave 

My joys and my sorrows, where no one will look 

As on your printed pages, my own little book. 

The thoughts that you hold will attract not the eye 

Of the critic or scholar, good-bye, good-bye. 



THE APOLOGY 

T COULDN'T think of living in this beautiful world of 
^ ours 

Without poetical thoughts — with a pathway full of flowers. 
A man who does not sometime rhyme, society should him 

disown. 
For the savage still is in him, and his wild oats yet 

unsown. 
He stunts the pretty pictures that in his mind would last. 
His presence turns the forest leaves, like winter's icy 

blasts. 
He never sees the little birds darting in the spring, 
He never sees the bursting buds, nor hears the robin sing. 
He's never seen a great sea wave lash a reeling ship. 
He's never sat with his sweetheart and listened to the drip 



LUBRICATIONS 109 



Of the gurgling and the murmuring of the little woodland 

stream 
As it rolled and tumbled to the sea in a visionary dream. 
Yet these are commonplace visions seen by poets each 

day. 
Cultivate your rhythmic inheritance, you'll find in it 

good pay. 
For we all have it in us — to you it may seem but a spark. 
Dream it, read it, and write it, it may turn to a flame in 

the dark. 
And when in the sear and the yellow and darkness, and 

you are alone, 
Take up the pad and the pencil, create loving memories 

of home. 



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